Immortality
by Ronnie James Dio
Summary: A closer look at the lives of Shepard and those closest to him. Written from multiple perspectives: Shepard, Miranda, Garrus, Thane, and Samara. Rated M for language, violent imagery, and sexual themes. Shepard/Miranda. Updated!
1. Memories

_Author's note: New to the site. Hello! Wrote this without any clear idea of direction, partly because I was feeling uncharacteristically angst-filled and romantic and partly because I love so many of the Mass Effect characters, and I wanted to experience further interactions between them. All the characters probably bear some of my stamp, but hopefully they're not too far from true-to-form. Shepard is different in a major way , I think. I wanted his character to be deeper and more fleshed out (and also not sound like Mark Meer in my head)._

_I'm thinking this will likely be based much more on character development than actual missions or battles, from the perspective of whomever I feel like writing from at any given point. I've taken a number of relatively small liberties with plot and whatnot, Shepard's age during the Mindoir raid for instance, but nothing too absurd or outlandish, I hope. Reviews/thoughts/etc. are welcome._

* * *

1 – _Memories_

_Shepard_

He awoke to the harsh sounds of gunfire, sounds he'd only ever heard before on vids or in his imagination, and after the initial confusion, he felt a nauseating surge of fear.

_Pirates, it's pirates, they'll kill us or sell us for slaves –_

His mother burst into the room and found him, a short and somewhat scrawny boy of seven sitting huddled on his bed in a wrinkled set of Superman pajamas. There were screams, now, amidst the gunfire, and the room lit up intermittently with the flashes of rifle muzzles from outside.

Viola Shepard had never considered herself a brave woman. She had been perfectly content – perfectly happy – living a quiet, unassuming farm life with her husband and child. But she knew well enough what would happen to him if these batarians took her little boy, and when she saw him there, on his bed, huddled and confused and so afraid, she felt a wave of love and adoration so complete, so sublime, that her own life, her own sense of self, in that moment utterly ceased to be of any significance. She knew then, as clearly as if in a vision, that whatever happened to her tonight, whatever she had to endure, these creatures would not take her child.

"Julian," she said calmly. "It's all right. Come here."

Slowly, as if in a daze, he obeyed. The floor felt icy under his bare feet.

"Get your shoes, please, honey," she instructed, searching through the small pile of clothes on his dresser until she found his jacket. Julian donned his socks and shoes while his mother fussed over his coat. He felt bizarrely disconnected from reality, standing there in his pajamas and wearing his shoes and jacket, a strange ensemble of clothing that he'd never had reason to don before. Most of the gunfire had died down, now replaced by strange, guttural shouts. The bedroom walls were now bathed in a murky, orange glow – one of the other buildings had caught fire.

His mother knelt before him, her eyes tear-filled but earnest and keen. "Listen to me, Julian. There are some very bad people outside, but they are not going to get you if you do exactly as I say. Do you understand?"

He nodded, terrified but full of love and unquestioning faith in her. He would do anything and everything she asked.

"I'm going to go outside, out the front door. When I'm gone, I want you to go out the back, away from the lights, and I want you to run, as fast as you can, until you get to the woods. Do you have a place in the woods, a secret place that you can go to hide?"

"I'm scared, Mama…"

"I know, baby. It's okay to be scared. But we're going to be okay. We just have to be strong for now, alright? Can you do this for me? Will you go and hide? In your secret place?"

He nodded dumbly.

She hugged him then, tight enough to hurt him, kissed him and brushed a trembling hand through his hair. It poked up every which way, just as it always had. They stood this way for a moment more and finally, briskly, she stood up, gathering herself.

"Wait until you hear the door close, then you go, as fast as you can."

"What about you, Mama? What about Dad?"

"We'll be fine, sweetie. Don't you worry about us. Just do what I told you, okay?"

"…Okay."

She smiled. "You're a good boy, Julian. I love you very, very much."

"I love you, too, Mama…"

After one last look, she turned and left. He would never see her again.

* * *

"And it is with great personal honor that I bestow the Star of Terra, the most prestigious of Systems Alliance military honors, upon our newly-promoted Commander Julian Shepard, for stalwart courage in the face of impossible odds, for his pivotal role in the preservation of our colony at Elysium…"

Shepard let the words and applause wash over him, wishing fervently for the ceremony's end. He felt wooden and exhausted. "Hero," they were calling him. He felt more like an overly-taxed machine. He had personally killed over fifty people in the assault on Elysium, helping to turn back an attack very much like the one on Mindoir all those years ago. He should have felt proud, satisfied, thrilled that these people, cut from the same cloth as his family's murderers, had failed to subjugate the colony, that he'd been there to help stop them. But he just felt… empty.

He knew he was a good soldier – one of the best, maybe. His reputation in that regard was well-earned, and he was a natural leader, if not the most vocal or outspoken one. But killing, causing pain and suffering in others, no matter how deserving, did not come naturally to him at all, and the battle had truly been a nightmare.

_This is your life now. Better get used to it._

In some ways it was a bitter pill to swallow, and he'd never felt more strange and out of place than on that stage, with a smiling colonel pinning that garish medal to his chest. He found himself thinking of that night, in the woods, crouched and shivering in a riverside cave as his childhood burned and died around him. He looked out into the small crowd of people, saw the faces of the men and women under his command, the faces of the civilians he'd helped save, saw the pride and adulation in their faces, feeling every bit the cowering child under the oppressive weight of responsibility. He saw Captain Anderson, his new commanding officer, standing toward the back of the room. Their eyes met and for a moment, a brief, strange moment, Shepard had the crazy feeling that Anderson knew exactly what he was feeling, that he understood. Anderson favored him with a slight smile.

_So this is what being a hero feels like._

He wondered idly if he'd have been happier as a farmer.

* * *

_Miranda_

It was a strange feeling, looking into this mirror for what she knew would be the last time. It was an expensive, full-body mirror, designed to eliminate glare, even enhance the reflected image. She had used it many times in the near-decade it had been in her possession, but rarely with much admiration for the figure it reflected. She knew she was beautiful, the same as she recognized her superior intellect or physical prowess. These were facts – nothing more or less. Certainly nothing to be proud or ashamed of.

Niket had asked her, many times, if this was what she really wanted, and now more than ever she could answer yes, without question. The "why" was a bit more difficult to articulate. There were the obvious reasons, to be sure – the rules, the lack of affection, no social life, impossible demands, meaningless and unfulfilling personal existence. Despite what she'd told Niket, there was undoubtedly an element of revenge in it as well, a desire to get back at the man who had done this to her, driven her to the point of abandoning everything she knew.

More than anything, however, it was her desire to do something with her life, something that _she_ believed in, and being trapped in her father's vision of a dynasty, being little more than the physical manifestation of his enormous ego, disgusted her. It demeaned her, somehow made her less real. What use were all her gifts if only to be wasted by shackling and confining her?

And the baby… her sister. She hadn't dared tell even Niket what she'd planned, but leaving the child here didn't even feel like an option in her mind. The child was obviously meant to replace her – _replace _her, as if a daughter could simply be _removed_. She didn't even want to think about what that prospect entailed for her if she stayed, though she knew her father and wouldn't hesitate to believe him capable of _anything_ in pursuit of his bloody _legacy_. But the child… What would he do differently in raising her? What mistakes did he believe he'd made? Most assuredly, he wouldn't believe he'd been too hard on Miranda.

_If anything, he'll believe he wasn't hard _enough.

She looked once more into the mirror, observing the grim resolve of her heart reflected back at her in her eyes, in the set of her jaw. Suddenly, impulsively, she raised her hand and violently smashed the glass. The mirror's backlight buzzed, flickered, winked out. Standing there in her bedroom, alone, her hand bleeding and throbbing, she was overcome by the feeling that this was _right,_ for the first time in her life she was doing something right and worthwhile. She closed her eyes, suddenly conscious of the quickness of her breath, the frantic pounding of her heart. Everything was in place. If everything went according to plan, she'd have at least a week's head start, maybe more.

_If. Unwise to assume it will, knowing him._

Beyond that, she had no idea what lay in store for her, but she'd managed to arrange a home for her infant sister. The family knew nothing of the child's origin – they'd simply been waiting almost a year to adopt, and all they knew was that they'd soon have a baby daughter of their own.

_Heaven send it'll be enough… Please, let her have a normal life._

_Let him never find her._

* * *

_Garrus_

The blow was heavy, and it stung, dropping him to his knees. Righteous fury lurched through Garrus like a bolt of lightning. He'd expected Gidion to _approve_ of what he'd done, or at the very least turn a blind eye –

"Explain yourself," his father demanded.

"Where should I start?" Garrus snapped, unable to keep his voice level. The blow that followed was expected, but no less painful for it. He sunk, clutching his skull in pain.

"Start with why you decided to put your classmate in the hospital. You split his skull, Garrus. If not for your age, you'd be sitting in a cell right now. I'm tempted to put in a formal request to the warden to make an exception."

Garrus wouldn't put it past him. "The guy is a bully, little more than a savage. He was beating on a boy half his size, threatening to _scale _him, like some blood-lusting krogan."

"I didn't ask you what happened. I asked you to explain yourself."

He stared at his father in disbelief. The anger on his face was unmistakable, but unlike Garrus' own, it was cold. Measured. "He got what he deserved! He had no right –

"What he _deserved_ is not for you to decide."

"I'm not going to just sit by and watch some barefaced savage prey upon an innocent child –

"Enough," Gidion snapped. "Have I taught you nothing? Stand up, boy."

Garrus obeyed, his face still smarting.

"You were right in your desire to protect your underclassman. In itself, that is commendable. But what you did today was an _abomination_ of justice. You are a child, Garrus, with no business dispensing your own brand of justice upon anyone, regardless of circumstances. You did not split that boy's skull to protect a child – you did it because you were angry. It is the responsibility of the school's governors to dispense justice upon those who misbehave."

"Reivus doesn't respect authority –

"To be turian is to respect authority!" Garrus shrunk from this rebuke. "You are to go to your room. Think on what you have done and how you have transgressed your civic duty. I did not raise a brainless barbarian, and you _will _learn to respect your place."

"Yes, father," Garrus said. The meekness in his voice brought a satisfied nod from his father.

"Now get out of my sight."

He slunk away like a wounded animal, livid with his father, hurt by his disapproval. Gidion Vakarian was himself a respected lawman, and Garrus admired him greatly, but the older he became, the more frustrated he became with what he considered naïveté on Gidion's part. Blunt force was the only thing people like Reivus could respect.

_Everyone doesn't _play _by the rules. How can rules check the behavior of people who don't respect them?_

The blows from his father's fist still stung. He stepped into his room and closed the door behind him. He _had_ been angry… but he was not convinced that he was wrong.

* * *

_Edit (12/13/11): A few minor changes made, but before I update in earnest I wanted to go back through and edit some of the older parts to get myself back into the mindset that I was in a year and a half ago when I started this._

_Shepard's mother is named Viola in reference to the character in Shakespeare's play _Twelfth Night_ of the same name. Viola spends much of the play masquerading as a man, and she also has a twin brother named Sebastian who bears striking resemblance to her. I gave Shepard's mother the name Viola as a reference to the fact that players can choose either gender when creating their own character. I personally found this entertaining, but as it was kind of an obscure thing to put in, I figured it required reference. I also just think the name Viola is pretty, so there is that._

_More of this to come. My laptop is totally shot so I've had trouble with all things computer and internet for quite some time, but I'm looking forward to writing again and this is one of my main outlets. I hope that my continuing this story can provide some joy to some of you._


	2. A Difference in Perspective

_Author's Note: For some reason the last part of the first chapter didn't take the first time. It's there now. I think. Also fixed a goofy formatting error that was eliminating my page breaks, making for some bizarre reading. To answer any questions: no, the transitions weren't supposed to be QUITE so abrupt. :)_

* * *

2 – _A Difference in Perspective_

_Miranda_

"I have the utmost respect for your abilities, Shepard. It's your motivations that concern me. Only time will tell if you prove to be an asset or a liability to our cause."

Shepard stared at her, his visage an undisguised picture of disgust. "That's lovely. I'll keep that in mind."

She watched him walk away, feeling decidedly unpleasant. She'd prepared herself for this eventuality, but it galled, no doubt about it. Oh, yes, it galled. To spend two years, two painstaking, claustrophobic, mentally-exhausting years rebuilding this man from death to full functionality, and he lacked the decency to so much as _consider_ her perspective.

_And now _he's_ in charge._

She watched him chatting with Jacob. Jacob had warmed to him immediately.

"He's unbelievable," Jacob had told her, with Shepard closeted up with the Illusive Man, so to speak. "Even with the limited sample size, I can confidently tell you he's the best soldier I've ever seen, bar none. He was on autopilot against those mechs. Like watching a surgeon at his craft."

The unfeigned admiration in his voice had irritated her. Soldiers are soldiers, no matter how skilled. The Lazarus Project wasn't meant to resurrect a soldier – it was meant to resurrect a peerless leader, an icon, a symbol of humanity's strength and resolve. Could Shepard _possibly_ be what the Illusive Man hoped he could be? Could _anyone_?

_But there _is _something about him_, she thought, watching him interact with Jacob. They chatted easily, soldier-to-soldier, man-to-man, but even watching them in this setting, there was a subtle difference between them. She prided herself on being perceptive, on being able to quickly and accurately read the strengths, weaknesses, and motivations of others, but anyone could see that Shepard was a leader. There was something about the way he carried himself, something behind his eyes that vested authority in his gaze, behind his voice that gave weight to his words. It _was_ subtle, something that he didn't do consciously or even at all – it was just a part of him. The fact that he seemed almost unaware of it would make it easy for others to accept. She envied him that, though it rankled her to admit it, even to herself.

"Coming, Miranda?" Jacob asked. Shepard had moved on to the armory and seemed excited by whatever Dodgson was showing him. The pair of them were grinning at one another in a conspiratorial fashion.

"Yes," she replied, putting her thoughts to bed for the moment. _My job now is to observe and follow orders. Let that be enough… Freedom's Progress awaits. Hopefully this doesn't end in disaster._

* * *

She sat in the far corner of the mess hall, picking at her food without really eating it, listening to Shepard's ongoing conversation with Mordin Solus.

_Quite a character, that salarian, _she thought with some amusement. Shepard seemed delighted with him. He claimed that talking with Mordin was "borderline psychedelic," a comment that had set both her eyebrows climbing. In Miranda's experience, "talking" with Mordin tended to be less of an exchange and more of a one-way transfer. She also found his tangential nature – whimsical, even – to be somewhat off-putting, where Shepard seemed to find it humorous and endlessly entertaining.

"Terrible, truly terrible," Mordin was saying. "Synthetic plague among most insidious of weaponry. Specifically designed to _circumvent _natural obstacles like species barriers. Much more focused than natural disease. Loss of life tragic…" Mordin paused, took a deep breath. "But inevitable."

"Was this plague the worst epidemic you've encountered?" Shepard asked.

"Close. Would have to say yes, in terms of actual figures – mortality rate, number of casualties, cross-species infection. Highly advanced technological origin. _Worst_ epidemic, though…" Pause for breath. "No. Worst was epidemic of scale rot on Tuchanka."

"You worked on Tuchanka?" Shepard asked, somewhat incredulous.

"Not openly," Mordin replied. "During time with Special Tasks Group. Actually studying genophage. But, for a time, scale rot took precedence... in hearts and minds, at least, if not in actual business." Mordin shuddered violently.

"What is it, exactly?"

"Degenerative disease. Attacks living tissue, often concentrated around genitalia. Results often gruesome." Pause. Deep breath. "Stench… unbearable."

"So it spread among the krogan?"

"Yes. Disease actually originates with varren. Disgusting creatures. Veritable cesspools of disease-causing bacteria. Scale rot actually sexually transmitted. From krogan to krogan, can be transmitted easily, through physical contact. From varren to krogan, though… Implications disturbing. Cause of outbreak was never adequately determined. Possibly... for the best."

Miranda stifled a laugh at the look on Shepard's face, the look of a man presented with an image profoundly disturbing, yet unable to look away.

"How did you cure it?" Shepard asked, aghast.

"Cure? No, no. Task was to study genophage. Impossible to become directly involved with krogan. Few salarians on Tuchanka, often treated with suspicion and violence. Assigned task took precedence. Besides, krogan physiology remarkably adaptive and hardy. Plague ran its course within weeks."

"I would imagine something like that could be devastating for the krogan," Shepard observed, "as regulated as their population is."

Mordin nodded. "Quite so... but not so dire as one might anticipate. Relatively few casualties, actually. First week was worst. After, few deaths. Great deal of pain and suffering, though," he added soberly, as if discussing the weather. "And the smell. Always the smell."

Miranda looked back to her food and turned away quickly, her appetite having somehow evaporated. She considered returning to her office to look into whether the Illusive Man had any new instructions following her mission report, but she already knew what he'd say.

_Continue to observe and support Shepard. I trust in your judgment, Miranda. _The latter statement, if delivered in person, would carry an almost undetectable undertone: _I trust you not to screw up. Don't._ She really wasn't sure how she could possibly do anything that constituted much of a mistake, given how little authority she'd actually been given on this mission. The fact that she was the Illusive Man's eyes and ears seemed to have about as much of an impact on Shepard as a drop of dew on Kahje. Often, he seemed to intentionally subvert any of her attempts to ingratiate Cerberus' goals onto his agenda. If he determined her to be speaking directly on the Illusive Man's behalf, he would inevitably dig in his heels and become infuriating and impossible.

"Thinking about me?" Shepard sat down across from her, snapping her out of her reverie.

"What gives you that idea, Commander?" she asked testily.

"I like to think that particular expression of loathing and disgust is reserved exclusively for yours truly," he remarked, with a cheeky little lopsided grin on his face.

Miranda was not amused. "Did you have something you want to discuss, Shepard?"

"Yes," he said, suddenly serious. "Can we talk in private?"

She stood and walked him to her office. As the door closed behind them, she turned to him expectantly. The look on his face was foreboding; there was a determined set to his face that she didn't much care for.

"I wanted to tell you that I've decided to forward the Lorek files to Alliance Command."

"Then I would have to express my emphatic disagreement with that decision," Miranda replied, furious. "Shepard, there's no knowing what's in those files. EDI said it would take over a year for her to decrypt them. If the Alliance gets hold of them, there could be any number of adverse or potentially _catastrophic _effects for the entire Cerberus organization. What possible justification can you have for doing this? Is it your _conscience_? For heaven's sake, Shepard, you're a Spectre. There won't be any _justice_ in any action the Alliance might take –

"I understand your loyalty to Cerberus," he interrupted quietly, staring her down with that raptor's gaze. "And to answer your question, I suppose my conscience does factor in the decision to a certain extent. But what I've seen in what EDI _has _managed to decrypt details operations that cost a number of uninvolved civilians their lives, human or otherwise, not to mention a great many Alliance marines. I'm not going to protect what amounts to a bunch of terrorist cells just because the Illusive Man built this ship and sent you here to watch after me. I've told you how I feel about this before."

"That's not –

"It's my decision," he interrupted firmly. "I thought you had a right to know because you're my XO, and I promise you that I understand your objections and take them to heart. If you still want to talk about this later, fine. But I've instructed EDI to forward the information to Admiral Hackett's people. She'll likely have done it by now."

_You selfish bastard. _She managed to control herself despite being nearly apoplectic with rage. Her cheeks were like fire, but there was nothing to be done for that. "It's your decision, of course, Commander. Now if you don't mind, I've quite a lot of work to do."

He took the dismissal for what it was, and if he did not look precisely regretful, he did look… discontented? Unhappy?

"Of course. I understand you're angry, but… I _would_ like to talk more later, if you're open to it."

There was a moment's awkward silence, then he turned and left without another word. Miranda sat in silence for a long while. What could she do? As she'd expressed, there really _was_ no knowing what was detailed in those files. The Eclipse operatives corresponding in the memo they'd discovered had been positively giddy at the edge that data could have given them against Cerberus activities. The best she could do would be to tell the Illusive Man of Shepard's decision and hope for the best.

_He gets under my skin worse than just about anyone I've ever met, and he's probably not even doing it on purpose,_ she thought ruefully. _He doesn't ever even raise his voice._

_Because part of you can understand his reasoning, _a nagging voice chimed in, from the back of her mind. _Even if you don't agree… Perspective is everything, sometimes._

_Perspective. _She shook her head, opening her encrypted mail program to inform the Illusive Man of the esteemed Commander Shepard's latest grand edict.

_If this keeps up, I might kill him myself._


	3. Vigilante

_Author's note: Thanks for everyone who's taken the time to read, and special thanks to those who've shared comments! I'm thrilled that people are reading (and hopefully enjoying) what I've written so far. Full steam ahead!_

* * *

3 – _Vigilante_

_Miranda_

Miranda fidgeted at her desk, re-crossing her legs and reading over the Illusive Man's message. He had been somewhat… _short_ with her, recently, and this most recent missive continued that trend. Granted, she'd been pushing him, unable (_and unwilling_, she admitted) to conceal her displeasure with the current arrangement, but it was impossible for her to comfortably sit by, offering her impotent and often ignored guidance while Shepard blundered about wielding his authority like a blunt instrument.

The Illusive Man expressed no open dissatisfaction with the dissemination of the Lorek files to Alliance command. This in itself meant nothing to Miranda, as he could either be truly unconcerned about whatever was in the files or what the Alliance might do with them, or he could be dealing with it covertly and not bothering to tell her about it. Given the recent flavor of their correspondence, and the sensitive nature of that data, the latter possibility seemed much more likely. She pointedly determined not to stew over it.

He was noncommittal concerning the culmination of events on Omega, offering her vague assurances that events thus far boded well for the mission's eventual success. She felt certain that he'd known full well the identity of Archangel before sending that dossier, and that gave her pause. She had acquired the very distinct impression that Commander Shepard did not appreciate being manipulated, even less so by the Illusive Man than anyone else, and she had discerned in talking with Shepard that he knew what the Illusive Man was doing, or thought he knew, and did not appreciate it. Privately, she agreed with Shepard – leading Shepard to Garrus Vakarian was an unsubtle attempt at increasing Shepard's comfort level, bringing in a known quantity and perhaps a friend. It was a calculated and manipulative move, and Shepard knew it. In her next report she would recommend more caution in the Illusive Man's dealings with the Commander, for whatever good it would do to suggest it.

As for the man himself, Shepard _did _seem different since Vakarian had come out of surgery, apparently not significantly worse for wear. The two of them shared a sort of easy companionability, similar to the sort shared between Shepard and Jacob. It was amazing to her how effortlessly men could relate to one other – after two years of separation, with one party (rightfully) believing the other dead, the two of them fell easily into playful banter, picking up their friendship as if nothing had ever happened. The Illusive Man had been right, though, manipulation or no – Garrus' addition to the team _had _had a comforting effect on Shepard, and it showed.

_Doubtful that it will make much difference where Cerberus is concerned, _she thought irritably. _At best, the turian's influence won't make things worse._

She had to admit that perhaps, just perhaps, she was being a little unfair to him. After all, under his leadership, they'd managed to secure an entire district from the influence of a synthetic plague and a veritable army of vorcha, and also somehow managed to extract Omega's public enemy number one out of the clutches of three bands of mercenaries hell-bent on murder. Their success should at least bode well for his leadership and combat abilities. Jacob had been right on that account – the man was an artist on the battlefield, a titan possessed of limitless power and grace, a truly unstoppable force.

_But what do we know about this man? Truly? When push comes to shove, who can say what he'll decide?_

For that, she had no answer. The best she could do was wait. And hope.

_How positively thrilling._

* * *

_Garrus_

"See you your jug, raise you that bottle."

The sharp _pop_ of Shepard's pistol echoed harshly in the high-ceilinged cargo bay, and the cylindrical plastic tube snapped in half, shards of plastic shrapnel showering the hood of the shuttle. Garrus raised his pistol casually, trained it carefully for a split second, and fired, hitting the top half of the tube before it could reach the ground. The ensuing silence was quite satisfying.

"Top that, Shepard."

Shepard grinned. "Show-off."

"Bloody _awesome,_" Kenneth breathed.

"You guys are idiots," said Gabby.

"Uh, Commander," said Joker's voice over the intercom. "Don't know what you guys are doing down there, but it's severely agitating the AI. Just an FYI."

"Guess we'll have to give it a rest for today," said Shepard. "Too bad."

"Whatever you say, Shepard."

"Keep it up, Vakarian. You and I both know I can wipe that smirk right off your face."

Garrus snickered. "How did you plan to do that? Blowing up the shuttle? That's your problem, Shepard. You lack subtlety. Subtlety is the silken fabric of style."

"Therum."

"Child's play," Garrus scoffed, waving an arm dismissively. "I could've made that shot from the womb."

Shepard's face contorted with indignant disbelief as he started to argue.

"You headshotted a Colossus, Shepard," Garrus forestalled him. "That's hardly the fabric of legend. The head is the biggest part of it."

"With a heat-blasted Scimitar. At range. Surrounded by gunfire."

"You get points for effort. But the execution? Sloppy."

"Haliat."

Garrus snorted. "I literally can't believe you would voluntarily bring this up." He turned to address the two engineers. "All right, listen to this. Shepard accepted a mission from Admiral Hackett to investigate a nuclear drone that turned up on an uncharted world. So, when we go to investigate, it turns out that someone has _moved_ the drone to the inside of a mine shaft, and Shepard actually wanted to _go inside_ -

"Keep talking, hero," said Shepard.

"As charming as you two are," said Gabby in a dry tone, "the two of us should probably get back to work. Come on, Kenneth. Calibrations await."

"Coming, Mum," Kenneth said glumly.

Garrus sat down on one of the storage crates, feeling uncharacteristically relaxed and contented. Shepard sat on the floor, leaning against another crate, across from him. The two of them shared a grin. It was _good _to be back. Just like old times.

_Not quite. Neither of us are quite the same men we were before._

He suspected that was more true of himself than of Shepard. Nothing seemed to have much of an effect on Shepard.

_That's not exactly true. What happened to Alenko bothered him a great deal, and Saren…_

The image came unbidden, Saren's lifeless corpse suddenly heaving, writhing, springing up like some hellish, spidery marionette, a dissonant wailing sound issuing from his throat that he could never have made while alive.

"What's up, Garrus?"

"I was just thinking..." he replied. "About what happened to Saren."

"I still think about it a lot," Shepard admitted.

"Watching a man shoot himself, then brought back to some kind of possessed un-life by an ancient sentient machine god, like some lunatic's idea of a joke… Yeah, things like that tend to stick with you," Garrus observed wryly.

"Well, that too, I guess. But mostly I mean what happened before. The indoctrination."

Garrus shrugged. They'd had this discussion before. "I understand what you mean, but I'm just not willing to give him the benefit of the doubt," he remarked. "He was an opportunistic scoundrel who didn't respect anybody but himself. You heard from your Captain Anderson just what Saren thought of your _own_ people."

"I'm not saying he was a model citizen," Shepard replied. "But he was strong-willed and charismatic, a legend even among the Spectres…"

"And Sovereign did _that_ to him."

Shepard nodded.

"I wouldn't argue with you there," Garrus agreed. "I expect most of us will end up dead before this thing is over. I don't know how you fight an army of those things. I mean, your colonies are having enough trouble with the Collectors."

"When did you get so fatalistic?"

Garrus shrugged. "I don't know. A lot can happen in two years."

"Tell me about it," Shepard said, rhetorically.

Garrus chortled. "Yeah, I suppose we can't all be so lucky as to get blown up in space and go through a two-year rebuilding process."

"So what _did _happen? You had a team with you on Omega, you said. What happened to them?"

"They're all dead," Garrus replied, matter-of-factly, feeling that familiar coldness creeping into his heart. "It was my fault."

"Give me the rundown."

Garrus watched Shepard's face as he explained, about his little group of vigilantes dedicated to disrupting business-as-usual on Omega, to sending out a great big "fuck you" to all the degenerate mercenaries preying on the weak and helpless. It was impossible for him to avoid getting caught up in the tale. He felt a tremendous sense of pride in his team, and he could hear it clearly in his own voice as he spoke of them.

His father would have been ashamed of him, but so what? His own sense of justice, of _rightness_, positively blazed in him like a beacon. Throughout his time on Omega, he'd been on a constant, natural high born of righteous fury. He believed deeply, more so than _anything_ he'd done in his time at C-Sec, that here, as Archangel, he was finally doing good work. No one escaped from Archangel on a legal technicality or slipped in and out of a revolving-door prison to kill and maim another day. His justice, _their_ justice, was final. There was no procedure, no legal wrangling, no red tape. Just the scum of the earth and a great deal of ammunition.

As he told the story of his team's betrayal and destruction, he neither expected nor saw any pity in Shepard's face – only acceptance and unspoken understanding. Shepard knew how it felt to have soldiers die under his command. Surely, he'd felt the guilt tearing at his heart, the burning, impotent rage at the loss of friends and comrades.

"This Sidonis," Shepard said, after he'd finished. "Do you know where he went?"

"No. His trail goes cold after Omega. But I'll find him," Garrus replied, hearing the iciness creeping back into his own voice.

"What are you planning to do?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you should think about it first. Give it some time. Cool off."

"I'm plenty cooled off," Garrus replied. _This is something he doesn't understand_, he realized. _He doesn't understand why this is necessary, that this is only right. It's about what's _fair_._

_It's the coldness that's consuming you that he can't relate to, _a voice whispered, sounding uncomfortably like his father. _Where is the Garrus who joined C-Sec determined to make a difference? What place is there within your vaunted sense of justice for cold-blooded murder, boy? _

_So he should walk free? How is that justice, when ten _infinitely better _men_ _lie dead because of him? How can I live with myself if I let this pass?_

_I didn't raise a murderer._

"You all right, Garrus?" Shepard asked in a quiet voice.

He nodded. "Yeah. Thanks for listening, Shepard, I… should really go check up on some things."

"Sure." Shepard stood, brushed himself off. He hesitated. "Don't let this thing destroy you, Garrus. It's not worth it."

"Thanks, Shepard. I'll keep that in mind."

Shepard nodded soberly. "Good." He suddenly grinned. "You're the best friend I've got, you know. I'd hate for you to get yourself killed. I'd have to find another faithful sidekick."

Garrus snickered. "I think the word you're looking for is 'Role model.'"

"That's two words, Archangel."

"So it is. Finally, your moment of triumph."

They walked to the lift together. Shepard grabbed his datapad from the hood of the shuttle and immediately began fiddling with it.

_Sidekick, huh? _Garrus smiled to himself. _Cheeky bastard._

_Just like old times._

* * *

_Shepard_

He stood over the sink, rubbing a hand across his face. It rasped, and he sighed. Shepard hated shaving, considered it an annoying pain in the ass, and regardless, he'd been too worked up over the past couple of days to even think about it. He'd only realized earlier today, after Miranda had given him an odd look, that he was growing a beard.

_No time like the present, I suppose._

He contented himself with trimming it down to a five o'clock shadow with the electric razor and examined his work in the mirror. An older face than he remembered stared back at him. Nearly-healed scars from his time on the operating table dotted his cheeks and jaw line, and the deep-set scar over his right eye, caused by a stray bullet on that long-ago night on Mindoir, was as prominent as ever, even through his ordeal after the Normandy's destruction. His thick, dark brown hair stuck up haphazardly, much as it had on that same night when his mother had tried to smooth it down. Golden-brown eyes stared out of a darkly handsome, if severe, face.

_I look like my father_, he thought suddenly. Well, something like him, at any rate. Walt Shepard had been a very different man than his son. Laid-back; easy-going; devil-may-care. Walt had been a farmer and glad of it. He'd loved being outside. His mother had always said Walt had the spirit of an explorer in him, and Shepard found that characterization apt, in retrospect. His father had taken him camping a few times, and Shepard had loved it, not just because he shared something of his father's spirit, but also for the youthful exuberance that shone in his father's face, outside in the wild. He was always a kind man, a loving father, but on those rare camping trips, Walt and Julian were adventurers. Cohorts.

_Friends_.

Cleaning up after his shave, Shepard walked out of the bathroom and over to his private terminal where he'd left his mail program open, the Illusive Man's message still on the screen with a heading proclaiming: "Deal struck with Zaeed Massani." He'd heard a few things about Zaeed Massani, some from hearsay and some from Wrex, who knew him personally. The man sounded like a complete hard-ass, and if that were indeed the case, Shepard figured they'd get along just fine.

_At least recruiting him shouldn't be a problem if the Illusive Man hired him, _he thought with no small measure of irony. "Recruiting" had thus far been something of a misnomer, considering the assorted shit storms and complete disasters he'd been forced to wriggle a way out of on Omega. But hopefully things would go more smoothly than the past few days had been. Picking up a hired gun and a prisoner out of cryo couldn't possibly be so quite so eventful.

_Probably best not to bet on it, though._

He wouldn't.

* * *

_04/13/12_: Shepard and Garrus have an extended conversation.


	4. Femme Fatale

_Author's note: Many thanks, again, to all those who've been reading, and extra thanks for those who've left comments! You guys are very encouraging and helpful._

_Couple of outside references in here, one (or two, combined into one?) I found pertinent and really interesting, the other just for fun. Maybe you readers can spot them…_

* * *

4 – _Femme Fatale_

_Garrus_

"Have I got something on my face, friend?"

Garrus looked up from cleaning his rifle. Jacob and Zaeed Massani appeared to be engaged in a sort of staring contest.

_Zaeed Massani_, he thought wonderingly. _Leave it to Shepard._

"Yeah," said Jacob belligerently. An alarm bell went off in Garrus' head. Talking to Zaeed like that seemed like a something of a bad idea. "Where'd you get the scar, merc? Shaking some omni tool salesman's family down for 'protection money'?"

"Where'd you get the uniform, fairy? That Lawson chit give you one of her extras? Didja have to get it sewn up in the crotch?"

Garrus snorted. Jacob glanced at him indignantly. He shrugged helplessly.

"Maybe we should all try and be friends," Garrus offered.

"I'm not a big fan of mercenaries," said Jacob.

"Tell it to someone who gives a shit what you think," Zaeed growled. "I'm getting paid to do a job and I'm doing it. If you got nothing relevant to say, mind your own goddamn business."

"I'll do that," Jacob replied tartly. Zaeed unloaded a small cache of thermal clips into one of the munitions crates and left the armory without a backward glance.

"Son of a bitch," said Jacob.

"You _did _start it. Besides, I doubt your Illusive Man is paying him to make friends."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it, _Archangel_."

"Point taken."

It was. If push came to shove, Garrus couldn't honestly say he'd be sorry to see a man like Zaeed Massani find the wrong end of a shotgun blast.

"Shepard won't let him have free reign. He runs a tight ship," said Garrus.

Jacob shrugged. "Can't really argue with that. But a guy like that… he didn't get those scars being a law-abiding citizen."

Garrus' jaws twitched in a smile. "My father used to say something similar."

"Your dad was C-Sec, right?"

"Yeah. I remember he once told me about an interrogation he'd done of a suspected red sand smuggler. A turian with a nasty facial scar. My father asked him essentially the same question you asked Massani, about where he'd gotten it, and the perp replied, from... Um… well, I'm not sure what the human equivalent would be," he mused. "An… intimate sexual act. My father… he was not amused."

Knowing Shepard, and to a lesser extent Ashley Williams and some of the old Normandy crew, had taught Garrus enough about human emotions to recognize Jacob's expression as a sort of surprised mirth.

"No need to feel uncomfortable, Garrus," Jacob said. "We're all adults here."

"Right…" Garrus decided that he was joking.

"I think we've got a human equivalent," Jacob added.

"Probably."

* * *

_Miranda_

A sharp knock at her door broke Miranda's concentration, pulling her away from her reading.

"Come in."

It was Shepard, dressed in a t-shirt and old-fashioned blue jeans. His hair was unruly and damp, like he'd just finished showering, and she was somewhat glad to see he'd trimmed that unsightly beard. She noticed a damp spot on his shirt, as well. He followed her eyes and she looked back to her console. Assorted "damp spots" were typical of Shepard – in daily life, he was remarkably absent-minded, normally a trait that tried her patience in other people, but in Shepard, somehow, it was a little charming.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked, politely.

"Not really," she replied. She'd been reading an extranet article written in the aftermath of their doings on Omega – it was, ironically, a sort of hero-piece obituary for Archangel. Everyone – Blue Suns, Blood Pack, and Eclipse included – seemed to believe that Archangel was dead and gone. _"Works for me," _Garrus had said, without much feeling. The piece portrayed "The Archangel" as a courageous, selfless champion of the poor and underprivileged. Miranda privately believed there was a much darker side to Garrus Vakarian than the article's author seemed to believe. There were two photos at the top: one of an armored turian in silhouette relief, the other of one of the myriad posters that the have-nots of Omega had taken to posting all over the city. In garish letters like some political candidate's slogan, it read: _I Believe in the Archangel._

Shepard sat down on the leather couch opposite her desk. "I asked Joker to plot a course for the Hourglass Nebula. We should be hitting the relay first thing tomorrow morning."

_Purgatory, then_. A mercenary prison facility. Sounded like an extortion racket, from what she knew of the place. The Blue Suns would take in the galaxy's most dangerous prisoners – for a lucrative fee, and with the promise of randomly releasing the offenders back onto their home worlds if their governments didn't stay on top of the payments. Anything to get ahead.

"What do you know about this 'Jack'? Anything?" Shepard asked.

"Nothing more than you've no doubt read in the dossier," she replied.

"I guess a prisoner's not a bad choice for a recruit, considering our mission," Shepard observed, leaning back comfortably. "Nothing to lose and all that. Still, you'd think the Illusive Man would have a little more information than what's in that dossier. Maybe he just likes surprising us."

"Maybe," she said noncommittally, fully cognizant of Shepard's attempt at feeling out her relationship with her boss. "I assure you that you know no less about it than I. The Illusive Man doesn't tell me everything, Commander. Hardly."

"But you're very loyal to him."

"I believe in what Cerberus stands for."

"And that's it," he said disbelievingly. "The fact that he protected you from your crazy father doesn't factor into it at all?"

"Not on a professional level. I'm grateful for it, certainly, but I didn't get to where I am based on his pity or my gratitude." She crossed her legs under the table. "My loyalty to our cause is far more relevant than anything I feel toward any one person. Your beliefs are not so very dissimilar from ours, are they, Commander? You've acted many times on behalf of a greater good at tremendous personal peril."

"Maybe. But I've never worked for a group like Cerberus before, where one person calls all the shots without any checks on his power."

"I'd say our financial backers provide a fairly significant check on what the Illusive Man can realistically decide to do with their money," Miranda interjected.

"And how many of them are alarmist xenophobes or crazy rednecks like those Terra Firma people?"

"I can't believe I'm having this conversation with a Council Spectre," Miranda said, exasperated. "Shepard, you of all people should recognize the need for decisive action in interstellar affairs. Often, Cerberus does what the Alliance or the Council can't, or won't. Whatever people may say about him, or whatever you may believe, I can assure you that the Illusive Man _does _have humanity's best interests at heart."

"So I take your word for it, and you take his?" he asked. "I ran into Cerberus 'cells' a few times while I was investigating Saren, you know."

"I do, and we've discussed it before," she replied tersely. "So you don't agree with everything Cerberus does. Neither do I, strictly speaking, but it's part of the way the organization is structured. Surely you can at least agree that what we're doing now is worthwhile?"

"Yes, I can. If you're talking about protecting people from the Collectors. I just… I don't know," he shrugged. "I don't trust your boss. I don't like feeling like we're all just objects, tools to be manipulated however he decides is best."

"If the tool does its job, then it's a worthwhile use," said Miranda.

"He wields his power like a bull in a china shop. He doesn't care who gets hurt or who gets in the way," Shepard replied. "And I've seen enough of his handiwork to be wary of just giving him the final say in something this important. No one person should have that much power." He paused and looked at her, apparently unaware of the irony of a Council Spectre speaking about anyone in this way.

_I doubt this man is much the norm as far as Spectres go, in any case._

"Do _you_ trust him?" he asked her.

_Since when does _my _opinion about anything matter to you?_

"I trust him to do his job," she replied. "He's very committed. Humanity couldn't have a better advocate."

He looked at her steadily. "Even if you're just a tool. If he breaks his Miranda, he'll just go find another one."

That comment struck her much more violently than Shepard could know. _That makes him sound like…_

"Well, he's not breaking me unless I can agree that it's necessary," Shepard continued. "Look at his eyes. How much humanity does he even have _in _him?"

The intercom sounded overhead. "Taking her into the fueling station, Commander," said Joker's voice. "Should be all set for downtime. We'll be all ready to go to prison tomorrow by 0700."

"Sounds good, Joker," Shepard replied, then turned back to Miranda. His face softened. "Listen… I know I've been standoffish, but I don't want to give you the impression that I'm not listening to you or taking your opinions and advice seriously. I respect you, Miranda, and I'm not going to try and sweep you aside just because he put me in charge of the mission. OK?"

She felt somewhat at a loss for words. "All right, Shepard," she replied, after a short pause. "I appreciate it."

He nodded and stood up. "I should check up on Mordin. EDI sounded a little alarmed earlier about whatever he's been doing."

"All right."

"Take care, Miranda." He smiled. "Enjoyed the debate."

She watched as the door closed behind him, feeling decidedly strange. No superior officer had ever said anything to her even remotely like that last bit in all the time she'd been with Cerberus. She couldn't decide whether Shepard's penchant for intrigue-free, direct communication was refreshing or disorienting. Maybe a little of both.

And what he'd said about the Illusive Man "breaking" her, and replacing her…

_Why should the value the Illusive Man places on my skills have any bearing on anything? I'm here because I _want_ to be here, because _(he can protect Oriana) _I can use my skills here for the betterment of humankind… Of course he would replace me, and why not? My skills _are _valuable. My genes were _designed_ for greatness. Filling my shoes would be difficult._

The idea that the Illusive Man was using her akin to the way her father would have was ludicrous. The two were nothing alike. The Illusive Man had given everything, even his own identity, toward the advancement of mankind. Her father was a self-absorbed egomaniac obsessed with making his own mark on the galaxy.

_None of that changes the fact that you _are _being used_, said an infuriating little voice. _You've thrown your lot in with him so thoroughly and completely that he can do whatever he wants with you. How is that different from what you ran away from? What better tool for the head of Cerberus than a beautiful woman with a gun?_

_Because I believe in this. I believe in humanity. More than anything… I want to help these people._

_What does he believe?_

She remembered the way Shepard had come to her, his wet and ruffled hair, almost childlike in his sincerity. She was the (_instrument of his will_)Illusive Man's agent, assigned to support Shepard, observe, and report. She _did _believe, fervently, in what she was doing, but…

_What place, in all of that, is there for "Miranda Lawson"?_

She sat in silence for a long time.

* * *

_End notes: _Apparently Garrus' dad met the turian Tony Montana. Gidion Vakarian would not be impressed.


	5. What the Body Wills

_Author's note: Thanks for reading, everyone, and I hope you're enjoying it as much as I'm enjoying writing it. As always, any comments or critiques are very welcome!_

_I'm hoping there will be some happier times on the horizon, but I anticipate that this will be one of this work's darker segments, as it details some of the more tragic aspects and events of its protagonists' lives. Let me know what you think._

_As for references to other works… Well, one is thematic and rather obvious (to an English major), but I had fun with it. There are two others – just a couple of lines of speech, probably obscure, but if you recognize them, you officially rock. Either that, or you've just seen some of the same movies I have. =)_

* * *

5 – _What the Body Wills_

_Samara_

From her first moments on this world, there had been whispers. These were the sorts of thoughts that even the boldest feared to give voice, and on a quiet, primitive backwater world like this Dalressia, a lush, jungle world at the far fringe of asari space, this fear carried the flavor of superstitious dread.

Old tales were recalled, as old as time itself, of daughters carried away in the night, carried off in the thrall of a monstrous, primeval horror too terrible to contemplate. Even here, there were only whispers, but after the last light fell away, as the moon bathed the relatively small, quaint spaceport in a ghostly, silvery light, the soft rattle of the wind through the trees was the only sound that disturbed the quiet. It was an unnatural silence, born of unnatural fear. Here, with the villagers drifting away uneasily into the arms of sleep, something unseen and unholy lurked in the darkness. Here, they feared the demon of the night winds.

It had been six days since the night in that village, when she'd first touched down on this world, and now, as she neared the source of its corruption, the old emotions began creeping into Samara's heart, like old friends after long years apart. They made an impossible jumble, her thoughts, fears, and emotions, a tangle she'd sifted through time after time beyond count, and she forced them away. It would happen tonight – here, in the very heart of this world's newfound, oppressive darkness.

She was both horrified and exhilarated by what she'd seen and heard on her winding path down this slow-moving river. There was a witch in the jungle, they'd said, a witch who enslaved minds and made sacrifices to some dark deity. As she'd progressed deeper into the jungle, "witch" had slowly become "goddess," and deathly fear had given way to reverence and awe. She had come in the night, down from the heavens on a falling star… She could grant anyone their heart's desire. She was their Mother, and they were her Children. Young asari were brought to her as offerings, to be liberated from their bodies and made divine.

It was nightmarish, enough to chill the blood, to freeze her to her bones. A few people milled about listlessly in the streets, all with a glazed, unfocused set to their eyes, like corpses brought back to an unnatural life. Never in her life had she set foot in a place that felt so disturbingly unreal, so _alien_. Only the smallest children appeared to have escaped the tantalizing snare of the Ardat-Yakshi's web, but as surely as the adults, they were hopelessly, inexorably caught, if in different way. She caught a few quick glimpses of them, but they shrunk from her gaze like wild animals.

_Even should they escape this nightmare, this place will remain with them forever...They will never have peaceful dreams._

She wound her way slowly up the village's main street, into the murky, black shadow of the temple, the building itself bathed in the haunted orange light of the rapidly-setting sun. A tight ball of mingled fear and anticipation settled in her stomach, a cold, quivering leaden weight. A sudden image fought its way into her sharply focused mind, a memory now centuries old, of a baby nestled in the crook of her arm, heartbreakingly beautiful and innocent and fast asleep. She banished it swiftly and unmercifully. That child, that lovely, youthful, inquisitive child, was long gone.

She mounted the temple's steps, her warring emotions tempered by her steely, unbreakable resolve. The doors were open wide, and as she reached the threshold, the soft, breath-like sounds of a flute-like instrument reached her ears.

_She is here._

There were perhaps thirty asari in the temple in various stages of undress. Most appeared trapped in a sort of waking dream, lost in their own rapturous thoughts. The more lucid were focused intently, worshipfully, on a beautiful asari clad in unrelieved black, lounging on an elaborately worked wooden throne. Legs crossed, her booted foot moved rhythmically to the music, earthy but entrancing, performed by a dreamy, scantily-clad asari sprawled at her feet. Those hungry, predatory eyes looked up, sensing the intruder. Their eyes met, and recognition was instant. To Samara's eyes, time slowed to a crawl, and the word that passed through the dark goddess's lips seemed to resonate in her mind.

"_Mother._"

"Morinth," she said stonily, her own voice wooden and hollow in her ears. Morinth stood before her, the bravest and smartest of her daughters, darkly beautiful and terrible, the true embodiment of the ancient demons of legend, and for a brief, immeasurable moment, Samara felt her heart swell with love and pride. Abruptly, Morinth's perfect white teeth were bared in a savage snarl.

"Children!" she cried. "The witch is here! Come to me, my daughters! TEAR THE WITCH APART!"

Two of the dreamy, dazed asari of moments before were suddenly upon her, neither looking befuddled now in the least. One of them grabbed her left arm, her teeth bared in menacing, unspeakable rage, her deadened eyes glowing with a murderous light. Biotic power coursed through Samara in a flood, and she lashed out with a whip-like burst of energy, blasting her attackers away like bothersome insects. The one who'd snagged her arm crashed headlong into the temple's wall, her head striking at an impossible angle, snapping her neck with a sickening _crack_. As Morinth's enraged thralls descended upon her, she chanced a quick glance back at the throne, but her daughter was gone.

She lost herself in the rush of biotic energy, felling the mindless husks as they came, dashing them against the temple's walls and floor, yet still they came, their shattered minds hopeless to resist the insidious spell of the Ardat-Yakshi. As the last of them fell at her feet, the roar of a ship passed by overhead.

_It is over. She is gone._

She released her hold on the torrent of biotic power, and it seeped out of her abruptly. Bodies, twisted and broken, lay all around her. Methodically, her body leaden and exhausted, she unwound them, lay them out as if putting her own children to bed. When she'd finished, over fifty asari, the entire adult population of this small village, lay before her, as if in peaceful repose. Morinth's work, undone.

_Find peace in the embrace of the Goddess._

Whatever ship Morinth had stowed in the village would not have been capable of interstellar travel – likely, she would return to the same spaceport at which Samara had arrived. Samara harbored no hope of catching her there. The riverboat she'd taken to reach the village would take twice as long heading back upriver, and by then, Morinth's trail would have long since cooled.

If asked, she would have found herself utterly at a loss to explain her feelings at this moment. Morinth was an abomination, a slave to her insatiable need. Death and suffering beyond measure lay in her wake. The children of this village would be forever haunted by what had happened here, after the demon of the night winds had come from the sky.

Morinth had made her choice, but it was a choice born partly from the traits that Samara so loved and admired in her. She had chosen to flee, willful, headstrong, clever and brave, and Samara had vowed to follow. They were forever linked – Morinth would never stop killing, and Samara would never stop hunting her. Fate had been cruel to her beautiful daughter. The Justicar's final mercy would be the only release… for both of them.

She watched the day's last light disappear over the horizon, feeling that peculiar biotic-induced weariness akin to the emptiness following sexual release. She would see to the children, see to the dead, and move on. The Code allowed for nothing else. She looked forward with both hope and dread to the day that this nightmare journey would finally be ended – to the day when, perhaps, both mother and daughter could be free.

* * *

_Thane_

He stood in the shadows, his back to the center of the room, his eyes watching the streets below but seeing nothing. The memories were bittersweet, but already fading – he felt himself drifting away, consumed by a cold, unfeeling rage and a vast spiritual emptiness.

Thane Krios was going back to sleep.

"Please," a plaintive voice begged from the center of the room. "It wasn't me! I swear, I had nothing to do with it! You have to believe me!"

Thane ignored it. The building was empty – no amount of screaming would make a whit of difference. His mind was losing focus as it gained clarity, like a tool being methodically prepared for a job. Behind him, bathed in the room's only light, harsh and bright, sat a beaten and bloodied batarian, bound painfully to an old C-Sec interrogation chair. The batarian continued to beg and whimper, babbling on the far edge of coherence that this was a mistake, that he had the wrong man. He was the chair's first occupant since it had come into Thane's possession. He would most assuredly not be the last.

"Please… sir… if you let me go, I –

"You should admit your situation," the drell interrupted in a low, even voice. "There would be more dignity in it."

"Please, I'll do whatever you want…"

"Yes, you will," Thane replied. He thought of Kolyat, hysterical as his mother's body had been given to the deep. He had screamed, implored Thane to stop them. He hadn't understood that she was gone.

"Do you know what I desire of you?" he asked, his voice deathly quiet.

"No… please..."

"It is very simple," Thane continued, clasping his hands behind his back. "I desire only two small services from you. You needn't worry – they will require no skill or exertion on your part."

The creature's breathing was labored, harsh.

"Firstly, I wish for you to suffer. For every pain that my wife endured at your hands, you will suffer tenfold. I believe that a traditional method of torture among your people involves the removal of the fingers. I have one of your knives here. That will make for a nice beginning."

The batarian started to scream. Thane gagged him with a piece of dirty rag.

"Secondly, if there is anything left of your sanity when I am finished with you, I wish for you to die. If our interaction goes as I suspect, you will soon be eager to grant me this request. Rest assured that death will come, if perhaps not quite soon enough to suit you."

The animalistic pleasure he felt at his captive's growing panic sickened him, but he felt powerless to stop it. He could not have excused his actions by attributing this to the pursuit of justice, and he did not attempt to. His body had taken many lives, but this one… this death would be the making of his soul. Irikah was dead, killed by this man, this _vermin_, and others like him. She had suffered badly.

_And so will he._

He turned his back to the trembling, terrified batarian, picking up the long, wicked knife from the old card table where he'd placed it. It was itself of batarian make and design, a brutal and sadistic specimen, and its appearance set the writhing vermin to a state of full-blown panic.

"Now. We begin."

* * *

He stood on the balcony, gazing at the sprawling beauty of the iridescent purple nebula. He felt dirty, repulsed by what he had done, but he was not finished. More men would die before he was finished – those who had participated in her murder and those who had ordered it done. He had physically washed the blood from his hands, but there would be a great deal more, and none of it would ever truly wash away.

No matter the revulsion that he felt, he could not, _would _not, turn away now. Ordom had been little more than a hired goon, a trigger man, but he had been there, perhaps even done the deed himself… It didn't matter. They would all die, regardless. Whether or not he had actually done the killing had not saved Ordom. It wouldn't save any of them.

Suddenly a memory flashed through his mind, and in his ragged, vulnerable emotional state, he slipped into it easily.

_"He only wants to emulate you. You're his father. It's not so unusual."_

_He wrung his hands, an irritating nervous habit. "I know. It's just that… Sometimes I feel as if there's only one thing that I could teach him."_

_She touched his arm. "Don't. Those days are behind you. Behind all of us. Don't dwell, Thane."_

He snapped back, his eyes drifting closed. He'd lied to her, of course. It had seemed the best course. What other choice did he have? He'd been trained to kill from early childhood – he had no other skills, had never known another life. And he had a family now. He'd had to do _something_.

His anger simmered just below the surface, mingling with disgust at himself as well as the unbearable sadness he'd carried with him since the moment he'd learned of Irikah's fate. Those men, those evil men, had killed her, but it was his fault. They'd done it to get to him. But it was more than just that. He had brought this upon her simply by being what he was. Asking her to marry him had been a selfish mistake – she'd have been better off never having seen him. And the boy…

_I… I can't let him see me like this._

Thane Krios was going back to sleep. But tonight, he stood on the balcony, outside the kill room, and cried. Irikah had been his life, his _siha_, and now she was gone.

He was lost.

* * *

_End Notes: _Samara's journey through the jungle was inspired by Joseph Conrad's _Heart of Darkness_. Not that I would compare my Mass Effect fanfiction to _Heart of Darkness_, mind you, but when Samara mentioned this in the game, that was immediately what I thought of and it inspired me to write this little vignette.

Thane is channeling his inner Anton Chigurh here. Not a pleasant side of him.


	6. Take One for the Team

_Author's notes: Many thanks to those who are reading (and commenting!). Hasmidas, I agree fully with your comment about length. My original mindset was that I was just enjoying putting out small chunks at a time, but the more I think about it, I don't think that's exactly fair to the reader. I'd like for there to be more in each update so the readers can spend more time with… immersion, I guess. Expect this and future chapters to be longer than the previous ones have been._

_Thanks again for the feedback! The kind words make me feel all warm and tingly. =)_

_Also: had a little "tee-hee" moment toward the end that incorporates one of the game mechanics into the phrasing. You'll probably notice it and think, "boy, that's stupid." Well, it's stupid on purpose. =)_

* * *

6 – _Take One for the Team_

_Shepard_

"How 'bout some eggs and bacon, like a grown-up?" Jacob smirked, favoring Shepard's breakfast with a condescending glance.

"I like cereal," said Shepard, digging into his corn flakes. "Reminds me of when I was a kid."

"That stuff won't stay with you. Give it two hours and you'll be hungry again. Didn't they teach you this in the Alliance?"

Shepard raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "You here to give me a physical? Am I not allowed to eat what I want for breakfast on my own ship?"

Ken Donnelly sniggered.

Jacob grinned and shook his head. "I'm just saying."

The lift opened to admit Gabby Daniels, carrying a bundle of papers and looking a touch harried. "Has anyone seen Garrus?" she called.

"Still asleep, I think," someone answered.

"Garrus doesn't sleep," Kenneth proclaimed ominously. "He waits."

"Ha ha," said Gabby unenthusiastically, rounding the corner and possibly headed to the crew quarters to wake Garrus up.

"Wonder what that's about," Shepard mused.

"Garrus has been integrating some crazy tech into the Normandy's main gun," Ken explained between mouthfuls of egg. "Nearly double the power draw. Gabby's panties are all bunched up over the ship-wide ramifications."

Shepard knew about the weapon upgrades. Garrus had mentioned upgrading the primary battery, and considering the fate the previous Normandy had suffered in a confrontation with a Collector vessel, it had seemed like a good idea.

"Most likely it's nothing serious, Commander," Ken continued. "She's probably just anxious to get started. Nothing turns her on like a good dilemma of engineering. A numerical tryst, if you will."

Shepard nodded distractedly. Miranda had emerged from her office, retrieving her breakfast – one egg, a bit of dry toast, and a cup of coffee – and disappearing just as quickly, pointedly not looking in his direction.

"Guess she hasn't forgotten yesterday," Jacob observed sardonically. "You really have a way with her, Commander."

"So it would seem," Shepard deadpanned.

Her indignation had been entirely expected. He'd anticipated that she'd balk when he agreed to give Jack access to classified Cerberus files, and she certainly had. There was also the fact that she and Jack had immediately and vigorously rubbed each other the wrong way. Truth be told, that last worried him a little – he'd have to keep an eye on that situation and try to prevent it from escalating. If Jack called her "Precious" again, the two of them would probably have words.

"Something you said?" Jacob asked.

_Something like that. _"She has every right to be upset with me," he replied.

"Wouldn't make any difference if she didn't," said Jacob. "Women certainly don't need our permission to get upset. That's been my experience, anyway."

"I don't think she and our new crewmate have exactly hit it off, either."

"Yeah, I noticed."

Shepard sighed. He really had no idea what to do about Miranda. Their relationship was usually genial enough, if there weren't some pressing disagreement or point of contention between them, which lately seemed to be the case much more often than not. He didn't like it, but more and more it seemed almost unavoidable.

_If she wants to get indignant on Cerberus' behalf, she can go ahead,_ he thought, and his resolve on that point had never wavered. He felt as if he hadn't had much of a choice in _anything_ since he'd come awake on that operating table, but he wasn't going to let the Illusive Man jerk him around anymore than he could avoid. He couldn't help feeling certain that there must be something else behind Miranda's unwavering loyalty, something beyond mere principle, but it was useless speculating about it. Miranda was just about as tight-lipped a person as he'd ever met. Any and all of his attempts at friendliness with her had been met with a sort of derisive skepticism, as if to say, "Are you serious, _Commander_?"

"Commander. How is your arm this morning?" asked Dr. Chakwas.

He looked up from his food to address her inquiry, smiling at her reassuringly. "Good as new, doctor. Thanks again."

Jacob shook his head. "Can't believe you got outta that hot mess with just a hole in the arm and a few burns. You're crazy, Shepard."

He'd taken a bullet wound on Purgatory. Nothing serious, fortunately, and nothing he hadn't experienced before. Still, it wasn't pleasant. They'd been mired in a stand-off with Warden Kuril and his personal guards. He and Jacob had been pinned down under a low wall, and Shepard had made the split-second decision to vault it. The warden had been ready – he'd had a black market grenade launcher, a truly nasty piece of work, and Shepard had been nearly blown in half. As it was, he'd lost his shields, been badly burned, and took a bullet in the left arm before he'd managed to reach cover. Unfortunately for the warden and his guards, however, Shepard's advanced position had placed him within easy shotgun range, and that had been the quick and unceremonious end of them. Trying to hold the Normandy hostage had turned out to be an unfortunate decision.

Jacob and Miranda had been incredulous – Miranda had even been angry, calling what he'd done "thoroughly idiotic." Garrus took it in stride as business as usual, much as Shepard would have expected – Garrus had seen him do a number of comparable things and more than a few dumber ones. Zaeed, however, had found it hysterical.

For all the differences between them, Shepard had discovered a patch of common ground on the battlefield between himself and the old mercenary. When he decided to rush headlong into a firefight, Zaeed was the only one who never, ever argued with him, which was a little surprising given Zaeed's self-professed, undying loyalty to currency above all else, but it was welcome nonetheless. Shepard's battlefield sense was well-honed through extraordinary natural ability and many years of experience. Jacob called him "crazy," and maybe he was, a little, but the way he saw it, a few scrapes and burns were a small price to pay for getting off that deathtrap prison freighter with their hides mostly intact.

_Called me an idiot, _he thought, a little indignantly. Well, not exactly, he amended. But as good as. She'd also snapped at Zaeed for ogling her, which he did frequently and unapologetically. He seemed to take it as a matter of course, something he did almost without thinking, and considering her usual choice of attire, Shepard sort of agreed with him – that white and black outfit left very little to the imagination.

_Why am I even thinking about her? _he wondered.

"I have to agree with Jacob," said Dr. Chakwas, looming over him and wearing a look of consternation, though a slight upturn of her lips betrayed the fact that she wasn't entirely serious. "From what I hear, you should really be more careful, Commander. We can ill afford to lose you to recklessness, you know."

"I'll try to be more careful, doctor," he said in a contrite, reassuring tone. "I'll try not to, you know, get shot anymore."

"See that you do. Or… don't," she replied, smiling. Shepard liked Chakwas. Her accent and her manner combined to make her into a matronly figure, but she was never overbearing. He recalled how shocked he'd been to find her lounging in this new Normandy's medical bay. He'd thought he was hallucinating. Either that or having the most bizarre _déjà vu _experience of his life.

Dr. Chakwas' face visibly brightened as Mordin came ambling into the mess hall.

"Good morning, Dr. Solus," she said warmly.

"Oh! Yes, good morning, doctor!" said Mordin cheerily. "Morning" would likely hold somewhat less significance for a salarian, Mordin in particular; Shepard doubted if Mordin slept more than an hour a night on average, but he'd never seen any sign of weariness in him. He and Dr. Chakwas chatted companionably on their way to the kitchen.

Garrus and Gabby emerged from the crew quarters, joining Mordin at the kitchen counter. The three of them picked up trays and found seats at the table, Gabby sitting next to Shepard and Garrus across from her. Mordin took a seat on Jacob's other side, inhaling the scent wafting up from his breakfast with a rapturous expression on his face.

"How about a nice floral arrangement, Garrus?" Ken offered. "Might taste good alongside that shrubbery."

"Wipe your mouth, Kenneth," said Gabby. Ken started to comply automatically, then pointedly dropped his napkin and glared at her petulantly.

Shepard smiled. Garrus' breakfast indeed looked like a pile of yard work, with the exception of the odd, stringy pieces of meat alongside the stiff, leafy stalks of what Ken had referred to as a shrubbery. Garrus himself, however, was watching Mordin and looking decidedly ill, his mandibles twitching in obvious distress.

"Does he have to eat that over here?" Garrus complained.

Mordin was eating from what looked uncomfortably like a giant gob of congealed phlegm, glazed with viscous pond scum and garnished with an assortment of raw, slimy globules that Shepard suspected to be some kind of fish eggs. The whole mass steamed with hazy fumes, as if it were covered in gasoline and could catch fire at any moment. The professor looked up from his meal and smiled at Garrus, popping another gooey fish egg into his mouth.

"Just _look at him_," the turian growled. "I'm going to be sick."

The lift's doors opened once more, this time admitting a short, lithe figure, everything above the waist covered in tattoos and little else. Shepard watched with growing alarm as Jack made a beeline through the mess area, heading straight for Miranda's office. Jack was childlike in stature – from a distance, she looked something like a small boy, what with her shaved head – but the sound that her hand made as it struck Miranda's door was harsh and offensive.

"Where are my files, Precious?" she called in a sing-song voice.

_Great_.

"Better finish your breakfast," said Jacob tensely.

"Yeah, I'm done."

* * *

_Miranda_

The dislike that Miranda felt for this "Jack" had only grown since the day before, and it grew steadily with every insolent knock the hateful woman applied to her office door. She sat at her desk stiffly, refusing to respond.

_Is this my job now? _she thought angrily, eyes squeezed shut, fists clenching in fury. _Dealing with this kind of childishness?_

"Come on, Precious," Jack cooed. "I thought we were going to be friends!"

Miranda refrained from pointing out that _she_ had been nothing but friendly to "Jack" and had received in exchange an attitude little short of full-blown hostility. Besides, she refused to be reduced to yelling at someone through a closed door. And she would _not _let this evil little woman make _demands_ of her.

"What is it you need, Jack?" said Shepard's muffled voice.

Typical Shepard. That _bitch _was getting on her last nerve, but it was Commander Julian _bloody _Shepard who had made her angry enough to chew nails. Putting up with the woman's childish tantrums was one thing, but giving her access to _classified _Cerberus databases? It was maddening, he had no _right_…

_What if she asks for a maid? Will he have me dressed in livery and set to wait upon her? Perhaps I could stand by while she brushes up on the organization's most heavily classified information and turn the _bloody pages _for her?_

She forced herself to take a deep breath. He had no right… but it wasn't Shepard who'd provided the dossier in the first place. The Illusive Man had been the one to recommend Jack's recruitment. Shepard had only been trying to resolve a volatile situation. What would she have done differently?

_Force her to acknowledge her situation, for one. If she still resists, beat her bloody brains out and lock her in the cargo bay until she's willing to see sense._

That was anger and frustration talking, and she knew it. Perhaps Shepard's way had been best. But she didn't have to be happy about it. And if "Jack" thought she was going to stand idly by and meekly endure her juvenile little insults, then she had another thing –

"Miranda?"

"Yes, Shepard, come in."

The door opened to admit him, the bald, grinning little harpy in tow.

"Miranda, would you mind letting Jack into the system?"

"It's already been arranged. She can talk to Hadley. He'll set her up with whatever she needs."

"The cheerleader comes through!" Jack exclaimed, clasping her tattooed hands with glee. "Thanks a bunch, Precious. I'll be sure to keep you in the loop. You know, let you know if I come across anything _juicy._"

"Hadley's up at the CIC," Shepard interrupted. "I'm sure he'll be happy to help you out."

"I doubt it," Jack replied casually. She winked at Miranda and flashed her a humorless smile as she turned to go. "Later, sweetie pie."

Miranda tried not to grit her teeth in distaste.

_Just keep it up, bitch._

Shepard watched the door close behind her, a bemused expression on his face.

"Does that just about cover everything, Commander?" she asked formally, her voice pure ice.

Shepard gave her a wry look. "Just let it go, Miranda. What do you expect from her? Hatred of Cerberus is quite possibly the prevailing passion of her life."

_If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was yours, too. That, or making my life difficult._

"I'm fine, Commander. Everything's fine. Thank you."

He sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. His attitude toward the situation spoke of resigned bemusement, which annoyed the hell out of her in itself. The fact that he was resigned to his role as mediator between Jack and herself implied that she somehow shared blame for the conflict, which was entirely untrue.

_That evil _thing_ is the one who needs a chaperone. Maybe your time would be better spent bothering _her.

"Really, Commander. I've got a lot of work to do. I appreciate your coming by," she said, meeting his eyes briefly. He looked both concerned and frustrated, but he recognized and accepted the dismissal.

"Fair enough," he replied. "For what it's worth, though... if it comes to blows, my money's on you."

She looked up at him, at the little amused grin on his face.

"Far be it for my displeasure to influence your _amusement_, Commander," she began, but the laugh bubbled up from her throat unbidden.

_I could take her. The bitch._

The mental image of herself collaring Jack in a headlock was too much. Perhaps it was simply a result of emotional overload, but she couldn't help laughing.

_Damn him. I'm justifiably angry!_

"I'll let you get back to work," he said, still smiling that little amused smile, and he left, the door snapping shut behind him. After a moment's reflection, and really despite her best efforts, she was surprised to find her anger with him almost evaporated. Or maybe not so surprised. He had a way about him that made it difficult to stay very angry with him for long, and she found her mind dwelling on him even after he'd gone.

The Lazarus Project had resurrected a very formidable man. Miranda had truly never met anyone like Julian Shepard before. His sense of morality was strong, uncompromising, and he had a very tender, compassionate soul. He went out of his way to help people, not because he felt that he _should_, but because he genuinely seemed to _want_ to. Strange traits in perhaps the most famous soldier in the galaxy, but… Shepard was Shepard. Ordinarily, she would have pegged his generous and empathic nature as a weakness, something that enemies could exploit, but he seemed beyond that. He'd never shied away from making difficult choices, never allowed himself to fall prey to indecision at critical moments. He'd left a friend to die on Virmire because it had been the right choice for him to make, and he had suffered for it… but he had done his job. If given another chance, she felt no doubt that he would do it again.

There was that man, the one who'd stood there in her office, that cheeky little grin on his face, trying to make her laugh… and then there was the man who'd somehow thought it a good idea to charge headlong into heavy gunfire and face down an explosive weapon at short range. The injuries he'd sustained as a result of that little maneuver may as well have been bug bites for all the notice he'd given them. Jacob was right – he _was_ crazy. Some of the risks she'd seen him take on the battlefield positively defied description. The fact that he was alive at all felt like a providential miracle.

_All _of them were exceptional soldiers, but Shepard… he was something else. He claimed that killing did not come naturally to him, and strictly speaking, she believed him, but she'd seen the look in his eyes on the battlefield, the look in his burning golden eyes that she felt mirrored in her own bright blue – the look of a man who felt profoundly, _vibrantly _alive. Meeting his eyes, with him in that state, was looking a demon full in the face. Try not to blink.

_So you respect him and admire him. But what is it about him that makes you so angry?_

_He doesn't respect _me_, he doesn't respect my _job_ or my _perspective_…_

_Is that it? Could it be that Julian Shepard makes you a little… jealous?_

She recoiled from that thought as if from a viper, but it was a thought that had been slinking around the back of her mind for some time, and it wouldn't go away.

The truth was, he _did _respect her, and she knew it very well. He proved it in the way that he spoke with her, the way he always asked for her input even when he had to expect that they would disagree. His issues with and trepidations toward Cerberus were an obvious point of contention between them, but she could tell that he respected her both as a colleague and as a person.

_So… what? My frustration with him is misdirected, but I realize that. I suppose I always have. It's just…_

_Easier? Better to be angry with him than face your own feelings of inadequacy?_

_Not better, _she thought, abruptly feeling low and irritable. Shepard's greatness was a combination of natural ability and intense dedication. Her own abilities were products of genetic engineering. Shepard was great because of his determination, his ability to overcome adversity, his _will_. Miranda… She was great because her father had demanded it as a prerequisite to her creation.

_Just stop it. There's no point to this. There's too much work to do._

She stared blankly at the screen of her terminal. The Illusive Man had not yet replied with his thoughts on her account of the Purgatory mission. Her report had been somewhat banal; she'd left out some of her concerns, both because she'd been angry and didn't want to risk the possibility of her emotions affecting her account of the mission, and also because she suspected her concerns would fall on deaf ears.

Obviously, the Illusive Man knew something of Jack's temperament – he wouldn't have financially arranged for her release without some idea of what he was purchasing. She found herself sharing some of Shepard's annoyance – after all, what sense was there in sending them into situations like Purgatory without giving them an idea of what they faced? She'd known that Cerberus had placed bounties on Jack in the past, ostensibly for the destruction of valuable equipment and resources, as well as the murders of quite a few operatives, but the Illusive Man had neglected to mention that Jack bore a lifelong vendetta against the entire organization. The possibility of his being unaware of this never even crossed her mind, because it _wasn't_ a possibility with him. He had known.

_So why bring her into this at all?_

She recalled Shepard's characterization of the Illusive Man as the sort of person who viewed people as resources, as no more than the means to an end. Perhaps the Illusive Man had simply seen Jack as a resource too valuable to pass up. Miranda had seen Jack's biotic power firsthand, and she had to admit that if that were the Illusive Man's reasoning, he might have a fair point.

_A fair point, but it's still almost counterintuitive. How could he have even believed she'd agree to work with us at all? That first meeting with Jack could easily have ended badly._

He certainly could have anticipated her own knee-jerk reaction to the situation. Miranda's reputation for gun-barrel diplomacy was practically a matter of record, and the Illusive Man had known her for years. Maybe he'd just believed in Shepard's ability to… what? Charm Jack? Intimidate her?

She wondered about the root cause underlying this train of thought and couldn't precisely identify it. She'd always accepted the Illusive Man's reasoning before, harsh or no.

"_Look at his eyes. How much humanity does he even have _in _him?"_

She pulled herself out of this reverie that had become both unpleasant and not a little unsettling, forcing herself to plunge back into her work. Korlus was next on the agenda. She'd never been there, but it sounded like a real winner.

_A Blue Suns prison, now a planet-wide garbage dump… Not to mention that disgusting piss hole, Omega… It would certainly be nice if _one _of these people lived somewhere with a semblance of rudimentary civilization._

To be so lucky.


	7. Best Served Cold

7 – _Best Served Cold_

_Shepard_

"Is it true that we have a _baby krogan_ in some kind of pod down in engineering?"

Shepard almost laughed at the alarm in Kelly Chambers' voice. "Not exactly," he replied. "It's fully grown. Some kind of tank-bred super-soldier, according to Okeer."

"And you're considering… _birthing _him?" she asked. From the look on her face, she seemed less than thrilled with the idea.

"Considering it," he acknowledged. "No more than that at this point."

Kelly nodded warily, obviously unconvinced. "Just… be careful. All right, Commander?"

Shepard smiled reassuringly. "Of course I will. It's me, right?"

_What's the worst that could happen? _he mused, watching Kelly depart for the crew deck. _Well, aside from being beaten to death with my own legs. _He'd played down the risks with Miranda, treating the possibility of opening the tank like a fun-filled adventure into the unknown, but he'd come away from that conversation with the impression that she'd been more exasperated than reassured.

What could he say? Yes, it was a risk. Arguably, interacting with a krogan in _any _capacity could be considered a risky proposition.

_What am I supposed to do? Leave him in the tank? Blow the whole set-up out the airlock?_

He wondered what the Illusive Man might decide to do with it, were he in Shepard's position. Miranda seemed to want it disposed of _yesterday_, but he doubted the Illusive Man would exactly mirror her trepidation.

_It's a potentially valuable resource. The Illusive Man is all about utilizing resources. Even if said resources might enjoy slaughtering everyone on the ship, _he thought wryly, thinking of Jack. Okeer himself had been quite a character, as well. He'd apparently been doing some kind of "prenatal" imprinting upon the krogan he'd been breeding. Most of them had been little more than bloodthirsty animals, from what Shepard had seen, but Okeer had given his life to protect this prototype. Okeer's character hadn't exactly struck Shepard as being particularly stable or reliable, but on the subject of the tank krogan, Shepard found himself strangely willing to give the old warlord the benefit of the doubt.

_The legacy of the krogan race was his life,_ Shepard reflected. Okeer had been fanatically uncompromising in his pursuit of perfection, ruthlessly discarding thousands of rejects in the interest of creating the ultimate krogan. If he believed that, with this prototype, he had finally achieved his vaunted ideal of perfection, Shepard was at least willing to lend that possibility some credence.

Shepard had fought enough krogan to more than respect their substantial capabilities on the field of battle. He also didn't like the idea of just spacing Okeer's soldier without giving him a chance to speak for himself. Maybe he was being overly sentimental (_or completely ridiculous_), but he couldn't shake the idea that blasting that tank out the airlock would be at least a little akin to killing a sleeping baby. If push came to shove, Shepard was perfectly capable of defending himself. Bottom line, it was his decision, not Miranda's or her boss's or anybody else's, and he had to decide one way or another.

_I wonder what Wrex would think._

* * *

_Garrus_

"Look at you, Garrus. Savior of the Citadel, is it?"

Gidion Vakarian's eyes bored into his own like augurs. He unwittingly found himself staring at the floor. Somehow, his father could make "savior of the Citadel" sound like something to be ashamed of, and Garrus didn't appreciate his tone.

"Anything to make you proud," he replied caustically.

Gidion snorted. "Save it, whelp."

Gidion had arrived from Palaven no more than two hours ago, emerging from retirement to help C-Sec deal with the aftermath of Saren's attack on the Citadel. He commanded such respect within C-Sec that an office had been arranged for him in advance, and to Garrus' eyes, it already bore some of his father's utilitarian stamp.

"Look at you," Gidion repeated. The office had only one chair, behind the desk, and thus Garrus was reduced to standing before his seated father like a supplicant. "Joining up with the first human Spectre, off to save the galaxy."

The word "human" didn't carry precisely the same flavor of distaste coming from Gidion as it did from most turians who disliked them as a species. Gidion respected humanity, the same as he respected everyone and everything else, but many of the qualities that Gidion privately seemed to associate with humanity – destructive individualism, recklessness, selfishness, impulsivity – were reflective of the tendencies he'd often railed against in his own son.

"I knew you would disapprove of my leaving C-Sec," said Garrus. "I didn't see any point in discussing it further."

"Upholding the law is not good enough for young Garrus Vakarian," Gidion continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Garrus Vakarian is above the law. The law is too restrictive for one of Garrus Vakarian's extraordinary vision. No, as criminals flout the law, Garrus Vakarian _transcends _it, to protect us mere mortals from our own naïveté."

Having his own thoughts perverted and thrown back at him like this, as if they were childish fancies without a shred of merit, sent a wave of anger and resentment rushing through Garrus in a poisonous torrent. He'd passively endured this kind of baiting often enough as a child; he had no intention of doing the same as an adult.

"What do you want from me?" he demanded, seething. "I'm sorry you can't be proud of my role in protecting the Citadel from the greatest threat it has ever faced. I'm sorry that I'm not enough like _you_ to suit you –

"Enough," said Gidion quietly. Garrus hated that tone of voice, hated (_feeling like a child_) his father's constant, unflappable self control.

"You don't know anything about me anymore," he blurted. "You don't know what I've been doing, you don't know _anything_ about the kind of threat Saren Arterius –

"I know arrogance when I see it," said Gidion. "You think too much of yourself and your _ideals._"

Garrus started to argue, but the look on his father's face quieted him. The older man had been baiting him, assuredly, but he seemed introspective now; something else was on his mind.

"I neither wanted nor expected you to be a reflection of me, Garrus – you're far braver and far more talented than I ever was," Gidion said frankly. "But you're too stubborn. I don't like these humans' influence on you," he added sharply, pointing a finger at Garrus for emphasis.

"No one is influencing me," said Garrus softly. _If anything, Shepard would make a better turian than I._ "I can think for myself."

"I suppose you can," Gidion sighed. "You always have, after all. And it was wrong of me to treat you like a child."

The apology was unusual but not unheard of – Gidion always accepted responsibility for his mistakes, though he oddly seemed to make fewer of them where Garrus was concerned. But meeting his eyes now, it was easy to understand how Gidion had come by his reputation as a scourge of the Citadel's criminal underworld. Garrus had known him all his life, and it still took every ounce of his willpower not to avert his eyes from that cold, iron gaze.

"What will you do now?" Gidion asked.

"I'd planned to come back here, to C-Sec," said Garrus. "I thought I might be able to help, considering how many they lost in the geth attack."

Gidion nodded. "Maybe you can."

Garrus had never felt overwhelmingly eager to please his father; the overriding impulse of his childhood had been one of rebellion. Even if Gidion approved of this decision, it had been Shepard's influence that had pushed him toward it much more than any memories of his father.

He remembered the confrontation with Dr. Saleon, with Shepard's insistence that the madman be detained and forced to stand trial. Garrus had been puzzled and irritated, especially since the standoff had ended with Saleon's death anyway when the idiot salarian had tried to shoot them. Shepard, however, had seen the conclusion he'd come to as self-evident, and Garrus had slowly, grudgingly, come around to his friend's point of view.

The issue with Shepard wasn't whether Saleon had deserved death. Garrus had detailed the doctor's crimes extensively, and Shepard had certainly been privy to an abundance of evidence of Saleon's lunacy on the frigate where they'd captured him. Shepard just didn't think they had the right to punish him. Garrus had initially scoffed at this idea, but further reflection had provided some sobering insight into his own character.

_Shepard was right. He deserved to die for the atrocities he committed, for all the lives he destroyed… not just because he managed to get away from _me_._

"Have you talked to Pallin?" Gidion asked.

"Not yet."

_I'm sure he'll be thrilled to see me, _he thought dryly. If anything, Executor Pallin had been glad to be rid of the troublesome and impulsive Garrus Vakarian. He'd likely greet Garrus' return to C-Sec with little enthusiasm.

_Isn't it about time for him to retire, anyway?_

"I _am _proud of you, Garrus."

He started, feeling (_like a child_) utterly bewildered. _When's the last time he said _that _to me, I wonder?_

Gidion laughed humorlessly at the look on his face. "I know, I know. I've always been tough with you. But what else could I have been, strong-willed as you are? It was my responsibility to teach you your place, and you fought me at every turn."

Garrus could see the truth in that, but he said nothing.

"I admire your strength of character. I admire your willingness to fight for what you believe. Coming back here to help, after everything you've been through, is quite commendable," Gidion continued.

_Here comes the "but."_

His father surprised him, however. "I think I'd be disappointed if you stopped arguing with me. Your willful spirit is what separates you from so many, myself included. I just... I don't want you to forget your responsibility. Your duty."

"You'd never let me," said Garrus quietly. It was a strange thing. As hard and uncompromising as Gidion had been, as much as Garrus had resented him, and as angry as he'd been not five minutes prior… at this moment, his heart was full to bursting with love and affection for his father.

"I've never been able to turn you from a decision once your mind is set," Gidion observed, smiling wanly. "But, Garrus… If you disregard everything I've ever taught you, don't forget where you came from. Do not forget Palaven.

"Remember what it means to be turian."

* * *

"All right, try it now," Garrus called.

She flipped the breaker, and he had about a half-second to notice something was wrong before something sparked and caught fire.

"Aah! Turn it off! Turn it off!"

She did. The fire petered out quickly, which did little to stifle his irritation. Her face suddenly appeared over the railing, looking chagrined.

"Rough day at the office, huh," Gabby remarked.

"I don't understand what's causing it to short," he grumbled. He was in a bad mood. Crawling around under the main battery was uncomfortable enough without things randomly bursting into flame, and he'd been unsuccessfully fiddling with the cursed thing all morning. The fluorescent overhead lights were giving him a headache.

"You should take a break, Garrus," said Gabby. "You've been down here for hours. I'll go find Kenneth and we'll see what we can do with it."

"A break would be nice," he agreed, standing up to stretch. "All right, I'll be back in a bit."

He climbed over the rail and started back toward the crew quarters, deciding that a short nap would be welcome. He hadn't slept well at all the previous night. Racing thoughts often kept him awake, of late. It didn't really matter how hard he worked or how tired he felt. In the dark, in the quiet, he was always agitated. Somehow, it was easier to sleep during working hours. The busy, day-to-day sounds produced by the ship and crew provided a kind of opiate to Garrus' troubled mind. In the darkness, he had only his thoughts.

He sat down on his cot, but instead of lying down for sleep, he picked up the portable extranet terminal at the foot of his bed. He'd sent out feelers to every contact he had all over the galaxy after his squad on Omega had been betrayed, and since that fateful day he'd been checking for messages with a manic intensity that bordered dangerously on obsession. Maybe he _was _obsessed.

_If I don't do it, who will?_

He had almost begun to despair of hearing anything. Working with C-Sec as he had, he knew firsthand how quickly a trail could run cold. In this case that was especially true, as Sidonis wasn't even a wanted criminal, just one anonymous turian hoping to disappear somewhere, _anywhere_ in the galaxy. The odds of finding him now were remote at best, but Garrus' fanatical determination had never wavered.

_I'll find him_, he thought doggedly. _Every night I see the faces of those men in my mind. He will not escape me. I –_

He started. There was a message. From Herde Gend, one of his Citadel contacts. Herde was a volus merchant, something of an entrepreneur in the Zakera Ward on the Citadel, who knew a lot of people and owed Garrus more than one favor. He was really a good sort, Herde – very good-natured and optimistic, with a great business sense, but given both his race and disposition, he was something of a pushover and had been very appreciative of Garrus' help in settling a few disputes with unsavory characters. Garrus had never called in a favor from Herde before; really, he'd asked the volus to keep an eye out only in the interest of keeping all his bases covered.

Still, he accessed the message eagerly. It read:

_Dear Garrus,_

_Hello! I am writing to inform you of some information I have happened upon pertaining to the inquiry you made when we last spoke. Yesterday I received a missive from a friend of mine who's had some dealings with the Blue Suns, and he informed me that a turian matching the description you provided recently approached the mercenaries requesting the services of Fade, a person (or persons) specializing in providing new identities for wanted individuals. Nothing more just yet, but my friend assures me that if a meeting is indeed arranged, he will surely hear of it and inform me forthwith. I will contact you immediately should I hear anything more._

_Best wishes,_

_Herde Gend_

Garrus stared at the screen, thinking furiously. He could scarcely imagine what sort of "friend" Herde had within the Blue Suns. Still, the volus would not have contacted him unless he felt very confident in the usefulness of his information. Garrus trusted him.

_So… what now?_

His first impulse was to charter a ship for the Citadel immediately and help with the search personally. That, of course, was out of the question. He could not and would not simply abandon Shepard and the Normandy. Besides, Herde hadn't said that he'd found Sidonis, only that he had a reasonable suspicion that Sidonis might be on the Citadel and looking to purchase a new identity. If Garrus showed up thundering around the wards before Sidonis had his meeting with this "Fade," there was always a possibility that the cowardly bastard would catch wind of it and run. It wasn't worth the risk without more information. Plus, he wanted to be more certain before discussing it with Shepard.

He knew Shepard disapproved of what he planned, but Garrus would ask for his help all the same. Shepard would help. He'd try to talk him out of going through with it, but if push came to shove, Shepard would be there. He didn't shrink from bringing it up with Shepard because he feared that his friend would refuse to help. He was anxious about it because he was uncertain of himself.

He had never allowed himself to doubt that he would find Sidonis. The possibility of that traitor getting away with selling out their entire squad was just too much. He could not allow it. Justice had to be done – the dead demanded it, no matter what (_my father_) anyone else might say or think.

_There's no other choice. I can't turn him in to C-Sec and demand justice for ten murders that happened on Omega. _

_But what is it that compels you? Is it a desire for justice, or a lust for revenge? Are you really so principled?_

_Were you ever?_

He wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, but Omega had changed him. As with Dr. Saleon, he understood perfectly that a large part of his desire for justice was enmeshed with his need to get even, but this time, he could not bring himself to care. His emotions, his own anger and hatred, his own grief and his own guilt, were driving him every bit as strongly as his need to bring his comrades' betrayer to justice. He knew it, and it was killing him, but he felt powerless to stop it. Sidonis _needed _to die_. _There was no other way. He didn't care why Sidonis had done it, didn't care whether he'd been threatened or bribed.

_He's a filthy coward and he deserves to die_, he thought forcefully. It sounded wooden and hollow in his mind.

_What he _deserves_ is no concern of yours. You are a child, Garrus._

_I am not a child,_ he thought, angrily silencing the old memory of his father's voice._ To hell with him and everyone else. I know what I have to do._

* * *

_Miranda_

She'd actually been sitting in the chair by the window, enjoying a rare bit of downtime by curling up with a book, when a breathless crewman had burst into her office. The book, Austen's _Emma_, an example both of a great work of literature and a guilty pleasure, tumbled from her hands, clattering to the floor as she bolted to her feet in alarm.

"Shepard's releasing the krogan," Matthews blurted. "We just thought you should know. Ma'am."

Miranda sighed with vexation. "Thank you, crewman. Carry on."

He saluted and left, hopefully feeling suitably abashed for having barged in on her in such a fashion, as if the ship were under attack. Really, how any of them could still claim surprise at anything that man decided to do was beyond her comprehension. To her, this decision was not at all unexpected. Shepard had been maddeningly glib about the prospect of letting that krogan out of the pod, and if he wanted to chance a beating and possible dismemberment, far be it for Miranda Lawson to dissuade him. She'd informed the Illusive Man, and his response had been much the same: It's his decision. If he wants to do it, let him.

She supposed she should feel a sort of kinship with their krogan guest, _created_ as he had been, but at this point that felt a little farfetched. He was supposed to be the "perfect krogan," but his personality was completely unknown, as Yeoman Chambers had said, and unlike Shepard, Miranda wasn't at all willing to just take Okeer's word for it. Still, there didn't seem to be a_ great_ deal of harm in opening the tank, as long as Shepard was willing to put it down if it proved hostile or insane. She hoped fervently, for all their sakes, that Shepard knew what he was doing.

_Maybe a couple of bruises wouldn't be so bad, _she thought, smiling to herself. Still, she hoped the krogan didn't hurt him _too _badly.

* * *

_Shepard_

"Cerberus protocols are quite clear regarding unknown alien technology," EDI said in a warning tone. EDI herself pointedly seemed to be withholding judgment.

"Oh. Really? Well, in that case, leave it in there," said Shepard sardonically.

"... Is that a joke?"

"Yes, EDI, that's a joke."

Shepard stood there for a moment, looking inside the tank at the motionless occupant inside. The krogan really did seem to be sleeping. His own imagination ran wild, however, full of images of a wild, rampaging krogan emerging from the pod and turning him into a fleshy glob of paste. He held his Claymore in his right hand like a security blanket. Even a krogan couldn't stand up to that at close range. Still…

_This is probably the dumbest thing I've ever done._

_Dumber than climbing around on top of the _Estevanico_? _

_Why do I _do_ these things?_

He smiled sardonically to himself. There was an odd sort of comfort in that thought, that, as ridiculous as this course of action seemed, it would still only be good enough for second place on the all-time list. Joker, for one, could certainly corroborate that. Garrus, too.

_Well, here goes nothing._


	8. This Hurts You

8 – _This Hurts You_

_Miranda_

_So this is the famous Ashley Williams._

Miranda could tell almost immediately that Shepard had little chance with her. The rigidity of her posture, the determination in her eyes, the set of her jaw – Miranda had seen the like many times, in many men and women. It was a typical Alliance military attitude.

_All she can see is "Cerberus."_

"I can't believe this. You've abandoned everything we stood for!" Williams exclaimed. Her words were sharp, accusatory and unforgiving. "You betrayed the Council… betrayed all of us!"

"Wow, Shepard, are all your friends this bitchy and melodramatic?" Jack remarked. Shepard held up an armored hand to silence her. Williams gave Jack an angry look, but didn't respond.

There were four of them here at the turret control tower – Shepard, Jack, the krogan Grunt, and Miranda herself. Garrus had taken the others back toward the center of the colony, searching for survivors and for any Collectors that might have been left behind in the ship's hasty flight from the GARDIAN towers. This peaceful, prosaic colony had become a killing ground.

_"It's clear, Shepard," _said Garrus' voice over the radio. _"No more stragglers. The colony is secure."_

"Copy, Garrus," said Shepard. "Take your group back to the shuttle. We'll meet you there shortly."

Miranda detected no sign of surprise on Williams' face at the sound of Garrus' voice or the mention of his name.

_Alliance intel actually on the ball? I'm impressed._

"I haven't betrayed anyone," said Shepard. He looked… almost sad. "Ashley, you saw what happened here. What would've happened if we hadn't showed up?"

Miranda suppressed a shiver. She'd known the Collectors possessed advanced technology, but seeing what the Reapers were capable of firsthand was a sobering experience. Those mindless husks, human bodies drained of everything but senseless aggression; the concentrated beam weapons the Collectors used, capable of sawing a person in half; and that golden glow… that disembodied voice. Something, some _other_, had taken _possession_ of some of the drones.

_It called his name. That thing called Shepard's name_, she thought, feeling uncertain, truly uncertain, for the first time since this mission had begun. She could only imagine what Shepard must be feeling, knowing that thing, that "Harbinger," was after him personally. An unstoppable legion of gigantic sentient machines? Could the Reapers even be fought?

"I didn't know what to think at first," Shepard continued. "I didn't have time to form an opinion. The moment I woke, I was already under attack. Since then I've been trying to make sense of all this… There's no denying what's happened. Tens of thousands of human colonists have been abducted. You saw it. They just took half the colony, and they have Reaper technology, the same stuff Saren and the geth were using. Those husks, Ashley…"

She hesitated. "I'd like to believe you, Shepard. But I don't trust Cerberus. And it worries me that you do."

"I don't," he replied. "No more than I ever trusted Udina or the Citadel Council or any of the politicians on the Citadel. I don't like being manipulated. But this…" He sighed, shaking his head slowly. "I can't walk away from this."

"But what if they're behind it?" Williams blurted. "What if _Cerberus_ is behind the abductions? What if they're just using you?"

"That's ridiculous," Miranda cut in, indignant.

"It's not," said Jack pointedly.

"There was some...presence," Shepard said slowly. "Something that identified itself as 'Harbinger' was taking control of the Collectors and using them to fight us. Maybe this 'Harbinger'… Maybe it's a Reaper, like Sovereign. I don't know. What I _do_ know is that those husks are Reaper technology, without question. I have no idea what they could hope to gain from abducting live humans, but it's happening. Anderson can't do anything because the rest of the Council won't. The Alliance won't do anything because they don't want to believe anything's wrong. Cerberus gave me a ship and a crew, and we just managed to save half this colony. I know you're remembering the research they were doing. I was there, too, remember. But I have to do something, seeing all this. I don't know what I _can _do, what _any _of us can do, but Cerberus is trying."

Williams shook her head in disbelief. "Maybe you feel this loyalty to them because they saved you. Maybe –

"You act like you don't know anything about me," Shepard cut in. He didn't sound angry, precisely, but Miranda could tell he was getting frustrated. Frustrated, and a little upset? "We were friends once, Ash. Do you really think I'd do this if I saw another way? You think I'd betray my responsibilities to the Council and the Alliance? Do _you_ think I've lost my mind?"

Miranda felt herself becoming increasingly cross with Ashley Williams as this conversation progressed, and it wasn't just the other woman's mistrust and willingness to believe anything of Cerberus. She was Alliance military, after all.

_How can she turn her back on him just because he's working with _us_? So much for friendship. Can't she see this is hurting him?_

Williams shrugged, turning back toward the metallic path leading toward the heart of the colony. "I'm reporting back to Anderson on the Citadel. I'll let the Alliance brass decide if they believe your story."

"I can tell you right now how _that _will end up," said Shepard, bitterness creeping into his voice. Miranda didn't blame him. "From what I've heard, they've spent the past two years telling anyone who'll listen what a raving lunatic I am. You'd better make it clear from the get-go that you agree with them before giving that report, lest they suspect that whatever I've got is catching."

Williams' face softened. "I'm sorry, Commander. I don't think... that. I just…" The stubborn set returned to her mouth. "I know where my loyalties lie. I'm an Alliance soldier. It's in my blood."

Shepard nodded. "I understand. It was nice to see you, Chief."

"You, too, Skipper. And Shepard… Be careful."

She watched Williams leave, disappearing between a pair of nondescript warehouses. Randomly, she wondered why colonial architecture was so uninspiring.

All_ the buildings look like warehouses._

She looked over at Shepard, standing motionless and expressionless, looking very separate and alone. She remembered that horrible voice, marking him out by name, threatening to tear him apart. It was one thing to know, intellectually, what they faced. But actually _seeing_ those husks, essentially walking, gibbering human corpses… Actually fighting the Collectors… To Miranda, the Collectors themselves were very similar to the zombie-like husks. They threw themselves into battle, seemingly without regard for fear, pain, or death. Like machines.

_They're just tools for the Reapers. Can they even think for themselves?_

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a loud _crunch, _followed by a squelching sound, as if someone had smashed a watermelon. She, Jack, and Shepard all turned to the sound's source – the krogan, Grunt, standing over a Collector corpse behind an old truck. Her stomach heaved; the krogan had brought his club-like foot down onto the dead Collector's insect-like head, crushing it like a ripe fruit. Grunt looked very satisfied with himself.

"Soft," the krogan declared, wiping his foot on the grass.

"Works better when they're alive, Godzilla," said Jack, looking almost as disgusted as Miranda felt. "Not that I'm against senseless violence or anything, but crushing a dead enemy's head seems a little excessive."

"Anybody hungry?" Grunt asked.

"Remind me again why we woke this thing up?" said Jack.

Miranda ignored them, watching Shepard. He appeared deep in thought, staring straight ahead. She suddenly had an image of him on the operating table, his eyes drunkenly fluttering open. He'd looked dazed and disoriented, and confusion quickly gave way to panic. She and Wilson had finally managed to sedate him; he'd tried to get up, flailing his arms about lamely, but she'd restrained him with the ease of an adult handling a small child.

He'd been so helpless then, so utterly weak. Looking at him now, it was hard to believe she was seeing the same man. He stood easily, thick brown hair disheveled by the battle and sticking out everywhere, wearing that heavy green and black armor like a weightless second skin, but his face was troubled. She was beginning to learn some of the subtleties of his body language – if he'd been sitting, his hands would have been tented, forming a triangle with his index fingers lightly resting on the tip of his nose, the posture he unconsciously adopted when absorbed in his own thoughts.

What he was considering now was anyone's guess, could be any number of things. He had to be wondering about their next step. The Illusive Man would most assuredly have some guidance to provide in that regard. She wondered if 'Harbinger' made him as uneasy as it did her. The idea that the Reapers were after him personally had to have some effect on him. Or maybe… Watching him, she found herself struggling with an unidentified feeling that she finally identified as concern.

_I suppose I _do _care for him. Or feel some measure of friendliness toward him, at least. He's a good man, and he deserves better._

"Let's head back to the shuttle," Shepard said abruptly, turning back toward the group. "I'm sick of this place."

"Take a look at the eyes, Precious," said Jack, leaning over Grunt's handiwork.

"Come on, Jack, Grunt," said Shepard distractedly. "Ready, Miranda?"

"Ready," she replied, ignoring Jack and offering him a small smile that he returned. It really was disarming, that smile.

_I think we'll all be glad to put this behind us._

* * *

_Shepard_

Julian Shepard lay on his bed in the darkness of his cabin, fully clothed, aware that if he found sleep tonight, it would likely be a long time coming. This day had been one of the longest of his life.

The Illusive Man had been behind the Alliance's "anonymous tip" that had led Ashley Williams to Horizon. This hadn't really surprised him, but it _had _angered him, no matter that he could see the wisdom in it. Leading the Collectors to Horizon had been a calculated risk, but it was better than not being able to predict where they would strike next. Still, he was sick of being the unwitting participant in other people's schemes, and it infuriated him that Ash had been so casually placed in harm's way simply because of her connection to him.

_Ash…_

The two of them had never really been close, not like Garrus or Tali, or even Wrex, but he had always liked her a great deal, admired her strength of character, her bravery, even her stubbornness. Her reaction to his association with Cerberus was not unexpected, but it still hurt. He had too few friends to be casual about losing one of them. He suspected that she had never really forgiven him, or herself, for what had happened on Virmire. She'd hated the idea of Alenko's giving his life to save her, as she saw it, and her case of survivor guilt included her commander for making the decision that cost Alenko his life and spared hers. There was no point in thinking about it; Alenko had been wounded badly and decided to arm the nuke. Shepard's decision had been the right one, the _only _one, under the circumstances. Kaidan had been a good soldier and a good friend, and he'd died a hero.

_No point in thinking about it anymore…_

Kaidan Alenko was dead and gone. Ashley Williams was gone, her path leading her another way. Maybe he would see her again one day. Maybe, as Williams herself believed, the three of them would meet again in death. He thought randomly of his mother, kissing him goodbye for the last time. Maybe they'd all meet in heaven and have a big party. Somehow, it seemed pretty unlikely, whatever Ashley Williams believed.

He wondered what could possibly be in store for those who'd been taken by the Collectors. Slave labor seemed "pretty bloody unlikely," as Miranda might say. Genetic experimentation? What possible use could the Reapers have for human DNA?

_Researching new and more painful ways to kill us, maybe…_

Machine race or no, if this Harbinger was a Reaper, it seemed to have a very personal vendetta against Julian Shepard. It had taken control of individual Collectors, commanding them to focus on _him_ to the exclusion of the rest of the squad, calling him "weak," threatening him. It was a little disquieting, to be sure, but at this point, more than anything, it just pissed him off. He'd slaughtered the possessed "drones" with a very palpable sense of satisfaction.

_Bring it on, you son of a bitch. You want to tear me apart, you'll have plenty of chances._

The Collectors themselves had been an unpleasant surprise. They'd reminded him very much of the geth or even the husks - single-minded, like machines. None of them showed any particular initiative. They were deadly enough in a fight, but the way they conducted themselves reminded him of a VI, as if they were running on some kind of battle protocol. Killing them felt more like work than anything else. His shotgun had taken the left leg off of one of the drones, and rather than trying to crawl to safety or retrieve its weapon, it had simply lay on the ground, awaiting death, like a broken toy. As if it had no survival instincts at all. Grunt had subsequently blown its head off.

Shepard didn't quite know what to make of their new krogan squad-mate. Violence seemed to be Grunt's only passion, and though this passion fit in well with his current responsibilities, it made for a dangerous and unpredictable companion on the battlefield. Shepard had to respect his ability to adapt, though. He'd been awakened in a strange place, knowing nothing beyond Okeer's strange "imprinting," and after a short initial struggle had simply adopted a name for himself and gone about business as usual. Shepard remembered how panicked and helpless he'd felt, waking up on that operating table, and Grunt's reaction to his own unique circumstances had been very… practical.

_He's certainly very good at what he does._

They'd all killed a great many of the Collectors on Horizon, and if Grunt took more pleasure from it than some, so be it. He was krogan, after all. Shepard himself was still struggling with the concept of these massive abductions, hung up on the pure insanity of it.

_These people are just living their own quiet, private lives. No one thinks about their own life on an interstellar scale. They think about (_the farm) _their families, their jobs, going to catch a vid after work… To suddenly go from living a comfortable life on a remote colony world to being (_a slave or dead_) a random specimen in one of those pods, just one of tens or hundreds of thousands… It's crazy._

_What can _I _do? Really? What can my team do? How are we supposed to stop a whole army of Sovereigns? What's Cerberus against that? All of the Alliance? The Citadel? How am _I _supposed to do anything?_

_How did I get dragged into this?_

He sighed, closing his eyes. The Illusive Man had forwarded four more dossiers to the ship. A master thief, an asari Justicar, a near-legendary assassin… and Tali. He smiled. Tali'Zorah vas Neema, as she was called now. She was on Haestrom, deep in geth space, on some kind of mission for the Migrant Fleet. He didn't like the sound of that at all, but he knew that her responsibilities to the Fleet were very important to her. Maybe it would be better not to interfere with her mission at all, much as he wanted to see her. Tali was like a little sister to him, and he felt oddly protective of her. Still, heading for the Citadel would probably be best, at least for now. Kasumi Goto seemed to be more or less waiting for them there.

_A thief. What does he think we're going to do, try and steal all the colonists back?_

He smiled weakly at his own feeble attempt at humor. He'd never heard of Kasumi Goto, which boded well for her reputation, and he could certainly make excellent use of someone skilled at remaining undetected. He'd been relying on Garrus heavily for reconnaissance, and though the turian could be subtle when he made the effort, it would be nice to have someone on the squad who could perhaps temper Garrus' need to shoot things. In a recon role, Garrus had a tendency to be a troublemaker.

_Better than sending Zaeed._

He sighed. Half the battle on this mission seemed to be figuring out how best to utilize the diverse array of abilities that this motley crew commanded. Garrus, tenacious and quick to improvise, deadly with his rifle in a supporting role. Jacob, unyielding and incredibly disciplined, always following orders swiftly and efficiently, dogged in defense but slow to attack. Zaeed, a destructive force capable of surprising agility and adaptability, but prone to causing unnecessary collateral damage. Jack, herself practically a four-letter word for "collateral damage"... Jack was a biotic whirlwind of mayhem and death that he was afraid to leave unsupervised. Mordin, with his goofy grin and quick trigger finger… Grunt… Miranda.

Miranda. Truth be told, he wasn't sure he could have handled things nearly so well without her help. In battle, she was quick and decisive, the very model of precision. She didn't exactly possess a flair for command – she was often brusque or curt and sometimes had to convince people of the merit behind her commands, but in the end, she demanded obedience and usually got it. In her role as the ship's executive officer, she was indispensable. He knew he had a tendency to be rash and impulsive, and he was more than willing to admit that her influence had probably saved them all a great deal of trouble on more than one occasion. And she was tough, tough as nails or old leather, cool and serene under pressure with a side of ruthlessness, as well.

More than any of that, though, a certain recurring image kept intruding on his thoughts, of something that had happened a few weeks prior. She had been angry… furious, really, both with him and with Jack, who'd been baiting her unmercifully all morning. He'd tried to make her laugh, as he'd done without much success many times before, and incredibly, this time he'd succeeded. She was always beautiful, but seeing her smile that way, hearing and sharing in that rare, almost musical laughter...

Shepard sighed and shook his head. He didn't really know what he was feeling toward Miranda Lawson, and it probably didn't matter. More than ever, after today, he needed to be focused on the impossible job ahead of them. First thing in the morning, he would tell Joker to set a course for the Citadel.

_If I can manage to get any sleep between now and then, it'll be a miracle,_ he thought dryly. _Hopefully our "master thief" will be worth the trip._

* * *

_Garrus_

At his terminal, another message awaited him.

_Dear Garrus,_

_Hello again! This message will likely seem to give very short notice, and for that, I sincerely apologize. Not ten minutes ago I received communication from a friend of mine that _your_ friend, the Mr. Lantar Sidonis for whom you have been so arduously searching, will be meeting with the aforementioned Fade in less than two days' time. As my friend is himself uncertain on the particulars of how to reach Fade, I have been instructed to place you in contact with a Captain Bailey, a representative of Citadel Security stationed on the Zakera Ward. Should you manage to reach the Citadel before the meeting takes place, or perhaps in its immediate aftermath, Capt. Bailey may be able to point you in Fade's direction. Again, I sincerely apologize for the relatively small window of opportunity that my information may provide, and I fervently wish you the best of luck in your search._

_Your friend,_

_Herde Gend_

Garrus grinned, shaking his head in disbelief.

_All the good people I had looking for him, and that chubby little volus bastard comes through, _he marveled. _I'll be his personal bodyguard if this checks out._

He would approach Shepard in the morning. From what he'd heard, there was a chance they'd be heading for the Widow system anyway, and he wanted to make that chance into a certainty. He lay back on his cot, closed his eyes and relaxed, allowing his intense focus, his anger, to quietly simmer. He flexed his long, talon-tipped fingers, feeling the familiar weight of his rifle in his mind, calmly drifting off toward sleep.

_Run while you can, Sidonis. You don't have much longer._


	9. Archangel's Justice

_Author's notes: This here is chapter 9. Love it? Hate it? Let me know! =)_

* * *

9 – _Archangel's Justice_

_Shepard_

"So what, you just gonna kill me? That's not your style, Garrus," Harkin sneered. Shepard shook his head, astounded by Harkin's audacity. This seemed like pretty bold talk coming from someone who'd very nearly had his neck crushed less than five minutes ago.

_Maybe it wasn't his style three years ago. Now, I'm not so sure_, Shepard thought. There was a dangerous look in the turian's eyes that made him feel very uneasy.

"I really wouldn't tempt him," said Kasumi. "He looks fairly angry to me." She caught Shepard's eye and seemed to notice that he shared her anxiety.

"What are you waiting for?" Grunt demanded. "I'll kill him if you don't."

"How about crushing his head, Froggy?" Jack asked with what sounded like genuine enthusiasm.

"Nobody's killing anybody," Shepard said firmly. He watched Garrus warily, noting the rigidity of his friend's posture, the subtle twitching of his jaws. The turian was wound as tight as a spring, and if Harkin kept pushing him, he'd probably find that out the hard way.

"No, I won't kill you," Garrus agreed. His voice was low and dangerous. "But I don't mind slowing you down a little…"

He started to raise his gun. Kasumi gave a little squeak in alarm, and Shepard immediately placed a restraining hand on Garrus' pistol. "Come on, Garrus. He'd tell C-Sec who did it, you know."

"It would be worth it," Garrus growled, snatching his arm away. "Besides, they wouldn't do anything. Once they find out how he's been using their own system against them, they'd thank me for blowing his miserable _brains_ out."

Harkin did not look the least bit abashed. The grin on his face expressed nothing short of pure insolence. "Good doin' business with you, Garrus. Hope we can do it again real soon."

Garrus head-butted him, violently, knocking the cheeky little shit on his ass. Grunt grunted with satisfaction. Shepard held nothing but contempt for Harkin, either, but he couldn't derive any pleasure from watching someone grovel in pain, no matter how deserving.

_I wouldn't have thought Garrus could, either._

"I didn't shoot him," said Garrus defensively, holstering his pistol.

"He deserved it," Shepard conceded, turning an angry glare on Harkin. _Who does this asshole think he is?_

"Sidonis had better be there," said Garrus in an ominous tone, "or I'm coming back to finish the job."

Shepard's heart went out to him. Garrus had been like this, off and on, ever since they'd escaped Omega.

He understood the desire for revenge. Even as a child, he'd aspired to join the marines because he'd wanted those batarian slavers to pay for killing his mother and father. The concept of justice through revenge was probably attractive to anyone who'd lost family or loved ones to slavers or murderers. But for Shepard, there was a disconnect between the desire for revenge and the tangible act of committing murder. Even growing up, he'd known that murdering slavers wouldn't alleviate his pain in the slightest.

_There's nothing cathartic in killing someone in cold blood, and Garrus damn well knows it._

Garrus' behavior with Harkin had disturbed him. If Harkin had kept pushing him, Shepard thought Garrus might really have killed him. He _certainly_ would have shot him if Shepard hadn't intervened.

_I can't let him do this._

_What right do you have to stop him?_

"Jack, you and Grunt regroup with the others," Shepard ordered. "Kasumi, come with us. You have a plan, Garrus?"

Garrus nodded. "I know the place. There's a mezzanine overlooking the entire plaza where we can park the shuttle. The Orbital Lounge is right across the way; from there, I'll probably be able to see straight through the front door."

"Sounds easy enough," said Kasumi.

The enigmatic thief Kasumi Goto had met them in style at the Zakera Ward customs station, somehow having managed to rig an advertisement terminal to serve as a two-way communication link. Even Garrus had been impressed. She was a little thing, not at all physically imposing, but almost preternaturally agile, making her deceptively deadly in a firefight. She'd also been able to lead them straight to Harkin's hidey hole with minimal difficulty. Her personality proved something of a surprise, as well – she was very bubbly and charming, not at all what Shepard would have expected. He'd liked her almost immediately.

"Let's go rent a shuttle," said Garrus.

The three of them, under Kasumi's direction, made their escape from the Blue Suns' warehouse without incident. Shepard suspected that the mercenaries they'd encountered inside had been under Harkin's employ – once the Suns discovered that Harkin's cover had been blown, that would likely be the end of it from their standpoint. Shepard allowed Kasumi to handle the acquisition of the shuttle, as she seemed to have a number of bona fide aliases at her disposal. He had no desire to patiently explain to anyone else that he wasn't dead.

"We should have killed Harkin," Garrus said, warming the shuttle's engines. "He'll just cause more trouble. He always has."

"C-Sec can handle him," Shepard replied, giving Garrus a disparaging look. "What, do we just go around shooting people now?"

Garrus stared straight ahead, apparently absorbed in flying the shuttle. A C-Sec patrol zipped by them in the opposite direction, sirens wailing. The lights of the city below were an indistinct violet blur.

"Not much farther now," Garrus murmured. "We should be there in plenty of time."

"I still don't like this," said Shepard. "What are we doing, Garrus? We're making a _hit_. Like a couple of thugs or gangbangers, the kind of people you spent half your adult life pulling off the street, for fuck's sake."

"I am not a _thug_," Garrus replied sharply. "What I'm doing is justice. Nothing more or less."

"Murdering somebody in the street is your idea of justice? Since when?"

"It's not murder," he replied heatedly. They were definitely speeding; a taxi suddenly appeared in front of them, driving at such a slow pace relative to their own that Garrus had to swerve to avoid it. "He forfeited his life to me when he betrayed my squad. All I'm doing is collecting a debt."

"You don't really believe that."

He didn't reply. The shuttle gradually slowed, careening down over a large, brightly-lit plaza. The Orbital Lounge turned out to be a big family-friendly establishment right across from the shuttle depot. The locale Sidonis had selected practically stank of paranoia – bright lights, open spaces, lots of people.

_Nowhere for anyone to hide, or so he thinks… There's always somewhere to hide. _

Garrus set the shuttle down on the platform he'd mentioned, in a darkened corner that offered a panoramic view of the entire surrounding area. He killed the engines and leaned back in his seat, taking a deep breath.

"Don't say it," he said suddenly. "I know I don't have to go through with it. But I'm not turning back now."

Shepard shook his head. "This just isn't like you."

"Isn't it?" Garrus reflected, his voice taking on a pensive tone. "I've always hated injustice... But I suppose I'm not a very good turian. I just can't stand the idea of someone getting away with what Sidonis did. If the law can't stop him, then I have to."

"Didn't you know him?" Shepard asked. "He was a member of your squad, wasn't he?"

"It doesn't matter," Garrus snapped. "He betrayed me, betrayed _all_ of us."

"Why? Credits? To save himself? What if the Suns or Eclipse caught him and beat your information out of him?"

"Then he's a coward and deserves to die," Garrus replied, visibly becoming frustrated. "What would you have me do, Shepard? What would _you _do, if you had ten deaths on your hands and the chance to avenge them?"

"I don't know," he replied slowly. "But I know I wouldn't let it change me."

No reply from Garrus. Sitting there in silence felt like awaiting his own execution, and he had no idea what to say or do. Garrus Vakarian was his friend, probably the best friend he'd ever had, but this ordeal _had_ changed him. More than anything, the turian looked lost, as if he'd encountered a terrible storm on the ocean and hopelessly lost his way. The closer they came to fulfilling Garrus' quest for vengeance, the further Garrus seemed to drift away from himself, becoming less and less the man that Shepard knew.

Garrus had always been hotheaded, a trait that Shepard shared to a certain degree. He'd always known Garrus to be frustrated by rules; at C-Sec, Garrus had hated being confined by regulations that he saw as prohibitive or counterintuitive. But he'd become severe. His nerves were frayed and ragged. His sense of humor was gone. This manic fervor, this rabid _need _to take a life, was utterly unlike him, and it was as if Garrus himself _knew _that he was approaching a moment of crisis, _knew _that he stood on the edge of a dark and forbidding precipice, but he pushed himself onward, forcing himself to be harder, tougher.

_So what do I do? Warn Sidonis?_

He was unwilling to do it. Even if it felt like the right thing to do, it would also feel like a betrayal. Garrus had trusted him with this, trusted him to help, and he'd given his word. Warning Sidonis could cost him his best friend.

_Plus, he's an adult. Who am I to tell him right from wrong?_

_Letting him do this would be a worse betrayal. You can't let him betray himself._

Garrus stiffened suddenly in his seat, and an even heavier weight settled into Shepard's stomach. "There he is."

* * *

_Garrus_

He looked terrible. That was putting it lightly. Even from this distance, Lantar Sidonis looked a withered shell of his former self. Garrus watched him approach the bright, gaudy façade of the Orbital Lounge, observed his body language, and came to the easy conclusion that Sidonis was both terrified and desperate. His clothes looked slept-in. He looked furtive and hunched over, a hunted look, like a man harboring a constant fear of being watched.

_As well he should be, _Garrus thought, stoking the ever-familiar fire of anger simmering in his gut.

Garrus laid out the plan before them. Shepard would approach Sidonis, engage him in conversation until Garrus could line up the shot. The thief, Kasumi, was there simply to keep an eye out, staying out of sight and watching Garrus' back, ready to alert him should she notice anything suspicious. Very simple and straightforward. The small, hooded woman nodded in acquiescence and let herself out of the shuttle.

As her door snapped shut, he looked to Shepard, met his eyes. "Will you help me?"

Shepard was silent for several moments. Finally, he spoke. "I don't like this at all," he repeated in a steady, measured tone. "I honestly think that if you do this, it will haunt you for the rest of your life."

He sighed, apparently struggling to find words for whatever he wanted to say. He looked every bit as anxious and pained as Garrus felt.

"Yes, I'll help you. I'll help you because you're my brother, because I respect your desire for justice. I can't honestly say I wouldn't want to do the same, in your position." He paused then, looked Garrus dead in the eye. "But Garrus… Just think about it. Before you pull that trigger, consider. You know what'll happen to Sidonis. Make sure you know what will happen to you."

Garrus nodded, his throat tight. "Thank you, Shepard," he said. He meant it.

Shepard nodded. Both of them exited the shuttle, Shepard carrying a bag containing civilian clothes. He went behind the shuttle to remove his armor and put them on. Garrus grabbed his rifle and walked over to the railing.

The mezzanine was attached to a small maintenance warehouse. He'd counted on the immediate vicinity's being deserted, and it was. Likely, the only traffic this upraised area ever saw was of the Keeper variety. Certainly, none of the myriad people in the plaza below even glanced in his direction. Even if someone looked him dead in the face, it was dark enough by the railing that he would be practically invisible.

Shepard emerged from behind the shuttle, dressed in his casual garb. His style was very modest, both neat and unobtrusive – certainly no one would recognize him, dressed like that. That green and black armor, _that_ was the stuff of legend. Shepard gave him a brisk nod and headed down the stairs.

"Wait for my signal," said Garrus, engaging his communicator. "I'll let you know when I'm set up."

"Copy," said Shepard's voice.

"He's sitting on a bench outside the lounge," said Kasumi. "Looks a bit worse for wear, I'd say. Certainly off in his own world."

"Stay out of sight," Garrus replied. The woman giggled derisively.

He unlimbered his Viper, extending the barrel and stock in a practiced motion that had a calming effect on his nerves. He lifted the scope to his eye with steady hands, mechanically seeking his target. Sidonis was seated on a long, public bench, just as Kasumi had described. Two lumbering elcor chatted companionably in the forefront of Garrus' magnified view, obscuring much of Sidonis' body, but the turian's worn, haggard face was clearly visible. The gleeful, bright-eyes that Garrus remembered were gone, replaced by the haunted, red-streaked eyes of a desperate man.

Lantar Sidonis was a mechanic, one of the best anywhere, a wizard with almost any form of transportation technology. Varon Sensat, a former dock security officer and another of Garrus' squad on Omega, had taken to calling him "Lan'Tar nar Sidonis, resident wrench man and the next best thing to a quarian." Sensat had been one of the two other turians on "Team Archangel," the other being the ruthless and tough-as-nails Antan Mierin, a former Blue Sun.

_All dead now…_ _thanks to him._

Racial tensions had been refreshingly absent; the twelve of them had been a very tight-knit group, regardless of race or background, but the four turians had shared an almost familial relationship, and Lantar Sidonis had been the little brother of the group. Everyone had respected Archangel, their quiet, fiercely dedicated leader, but Sidonis… Sidonis had worshipped him. Garrus remembered the innocent adoration perpetually shining in Sidonis' eyes in his hero's presence. The others had often teased him, his relative youth and almost comical gullibility making him an easy target, but Sidonis had perhaps been the most dedicated of all of them. He had believed passionately and wholeheartedly in the cause and mystique of Archangel. Those posters all over Omega had initially been his work. More than anyone, perhaps more than even Garrus himself, Sidonis had _believed in the Archangel_.

Garrus watched him through the scope. Kasumi's observation had been accurate – Sidonis looked lost in his own thoughts, his wariness and anxiety of moments before seemingly replaced by an anemic-looking fatalism. He reminded Garrus of a beleaguered pit fighter, overmatched and beaten in the final rounds, all the fight nearly gone out of him.

"Garrus?" said Shepard's voice. He sounded a thousand miles away.

"Move in," Garrus replied, his own voice sounding hollow in his ears.

He lowered the rifle, watching Shepard's approach. "Brother," Shepard had called him. During his time on Omega, Garrus himself had viewed Lantar Sidonis as a brother, a younger brother to be guided and protected. He had been very fond of Sidonis; they all had. His youthful, idealistic exuberance had been a very welcome influence alongside the grim attitude prevalent among the older, more grizzled members of the team. The young turian had been very shy in his previous life; Garrus had been amazed at the social butterfly Sidonis had become. It was as if, with this small, comfortable group of old mercs and hardened soldiers, Sidonis had finally found his family and emerged from his shell.

Garrus shook his head, as if clearing away cobwebs. There was no sense in thinking this way. Those days were gone. Sidonis was a coward, a traitor who had sold out his friends, his _family_, in order to save his own miserable life.

_He deserves it. I'm going to kill him and he deserves it._

The image bubbled up unbidden. Garrus saw himself pulling the trigger, saw the bullet erupt from the rifle's elongated barrel, saw Sidonis' head snap forward as the shard of metal ripped through his metallic cranial scales, saw the ensuing shower of virulent blue blood pouring from the gaping wound. He wanted to see it as justice, _needed_ to have his rage vindicated. He wanted to see the cowardly bastard who had betrayed his men to their deaths pay for what he'd done.

"Sir?" he heard Shepard say. Sidonis looked up sharply.

"Are you from… Fade?" Sidonis asked, practically scrambling to his feet. The turian's voice was a bit muffled, but clearly audible through Shepard's communicator. He sounded pathetically weak. Like a child.

_So this is the great Garrus Vakarian, _said his father's voice. _Look at him, Garrus. Guilt and paranoia have nearly killed him already. He's only a danger to himself. Look at what fear has done to him. And you want to shoot him._

_It's not about what I _want_, it's about what's _FAIR_!_

"Yes," Shepard replied. "Don't worry, everything's being taken care of. We just need to clear up a few things."

"Okay," said Sidonis, heaving a heavy sigh. They were both standing now, out in plain view.

_Take the shot, Garrus. Do it._

_Become a murderer._

He had the shot. His crosshair rested steadily on Sidonis' temple. His grip on the rifle was practiced and steady; his heart beat rhythmically, a controlled pounding in his ears. He recalled the morning before an assault on an Eclipse freighter, remembered the younger turian's pride in showing Garrus the poster he'd created. Sidonis was no soldier; he had yearned for ways to contribute to the cause, and in his mind, those ridiculous "Archangel" banners had been a worthy endeavor. Garrus had smiled at him in bemusement.

_What's happening to me?_

"What happened?" Sidonis asked tentatively.

Garrus' thoughts were spiraling out of control, his poise rapidly evaporating. That boyish face had forced itself inexorably into his mind, that innocent, bright face full to bursting with the brand of boundless youthful idealism that had so reminded Garrus of himself... The view through the scope blurred.

"Shepard… I…"

Shepard hesitated.

"Is something wrong?" Sidonis asked.

"Why did you do it, Sidonis?" Shepard asked him.

Sidonis recoiled as if burned. "I… I don't…know what you…" Slowly, his shoulders slumped. He averted his eyes. "You're with Garrus, aren't you." It wasn't a question. "I guess… I knew this would happen. In a way, it… it will be a relief. To have everything just…be over with."

Garrus lowered the rifle, his hands shaking badly.

_I can't… Dammit, I just… _

_I can't do it._

"Why did you do it, Sidonis?" Shepard repeated.

"They threatened me," Sidonis replied woodenly. He hung his head, ashamed. "At first they offered to pay me. I was scared. I didn't know what to do. Then they found me, beat me up, threatened to kill me. They were Blood Pack, two krogan and a bunch of vorcha. I was terrified. I didn't… I didn't want to help them, but I did. I'm a coward. I could never be like Garrus… He was… He was the best, the best of us, and I…"

"Just… just go. Shepard, tell him to go," Garrus stammered.

_Is this justice? Am I doing the right thing?_

_Maybe not, but… I'm not a murderer._

"Garrus says for you to go. He's giving you another chance."

Sidonis looked around slowly, his eyes finally settling on the darkened mezzanine where Garrus stood in silence. There was no possible way Sidonis could see him, but their eyes seemed to meet for a brief moment.

"Tell Garrus…" he began. "Tell him I'm sorry. Tell him… I'll make it up to him somehow."

Shepard nodded. Sidonis turned and slowly walked away. He looked very tired.

_Maybe… maybe he's suffered enough._

"For what it's worth," said a female voice from his side, startling him, "I think you did the right thing."

He folded his rifle, not looking at Kasumi. He didn't respond; there didn't seem to be anything to say. His emotions were still jumbled and unclear, and in his mind, there were no answers to be had.

Shepard appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Don't say it," said Garrus wryly. Shepard smiled.

"Just give it time," said Shepard. Garrus nodded. He felt emotionally and physically drained, like he'd been hit by a car, and he wondered absently if sleep would be any easier, now that it was over.

"Yeah," he replied. "Let's get out of here."

"Right with you."

"I'll drive!" Kasumi trilled.

The three of them boarded the shuttle, Kasumi in the driver's seat and Shepard in the back. He leaned back in his seat as the shuttle lifted off. The ride seemed a lot smoother from the passenger seat. That, or he'd been more distressed than he'd realized on the drive over.

The Citadel was a beautiful place, if more than a little hectic and crowded. Shuttles of all shapes and sizes filled the air above the wards, carrying all manner of people, of all races, genders, shapes and sizes. Garrus remembered the awe he'd felt visiting the Citadel for the first time.

_The biggest city in the galaxy._

The bright yellow lights of the Flux club filled the shuttle's cabin as they passed above. Nearby lay the medical clinic of one Dr. Chloe Michel. Inside that clinic, he and Shepard had joined forces in an attempt to expose Saren's treachery. He'd walked into that clinic a frustrated C-Sec operative; the path out had lead him to immortality.

Staring down at the city below, Garrus wondered if he would ever be at peace with the man he had become. He'd told Shepard that he had never really been a good turian, and that was true enough. Good turians were always selfless public servants, always putting the needs of the group above their own. On Palaven, the rule of law was sacred; to Garrus, it was confining. He would never have Gidion Vakarian's reverence for the letter of the law. He was impulsive and individualistic, even more so than Shepard, a human.

"_Brother_," Shepard had called him. His father would have been surprised to learn that Garrus had found a brother in a human, and even more surprised to learn said human was actually a sobering influence on his son. But Shepard had been right. He was not entirely at peace with the decision to spare Sidonis, but the relief he felt now, the relaxation that had eluded him for months, was overwhelming. He felt as if he had been dangling over a bottomless pit and had somehow managed to pull himself back, averting a terrible disaster.

In the moment, the decision to spare Sidonis' life had felt like cowardice… but he had _wanted _to do it, had _dreamed _of doing it. The desire for revenge had nearly consumed his identity. It wasn't cowardice that had stayed his hand; it was something else, some distant, languished part of him, crying for help.

_I don't know. I don't want to think about it now._

He was tired. Likely they all were; it had been a long day. Maybe he'd find himself able to sleep after all. He just hoped the dead could rest easy with the choice he'd made.

_They all loved him. He was a good kid… maybe he can be again._

_I am Garrus Vakarian, proud son of Gidion Vakarian._

_And I am not a murderer._

That night, he slept like the dead.


	10. A Drop of Water

_Author's notes: Hello, gentle readers. Things are shaping up nicely, I think – I've had a lot of fun with the last few chapters. I love Mordin!_

_Pretty soon, the two other protagonists I've chosen will be prominently featured in the narrative, which will hopefully make things even more interesting. And the idea of Samara taking a bath is easily the most interesting thing I've imagined thus far, though everyone may not agree. =P_

_As always, please do continue to leave your thoughts and criticisms. I am both quite humbled by the praise and inevitably improved by the critiques. =)_

* * *

10 – _A Drop of Water_

_Miranda_

"Is that a shield generator?" Shepard asked, reaching for something on Mordin's lab bench.

"Yes," the professor replied, a little distractedly. Miranda walked over to see what he was doing; the salarian appeared to be tinkering with the prototype nanocrystal shield module that Cerberus had acquired. Working with geth shield technology was completely beyond Miranda's knowledge or experience, but Mordin was positively thrilled with the opportunity. Shepard, meanwhile, was holding a very compact example of a personal kinetic barrier generator, turning it over in his hands.

"Looks small," Shepard observed, echoing Miranda's thoughts.

"Backup generator," Mordin replied. "Designed to supplement existing kinetic barrier with redundant system. Shields go down, auxiliary generator kicks in. Saves life." Deep breath. "Surprises enemies."

"Must've been a Cerberus in-house project," Shepard observed, pointing out the Cerberus logo embossed on the generator's side. "Where did you even _get _this?"

Mordin looked up at the question, started to answer, then closed his mouth and stared at the generator in Shepard's hand as if he'd never seen it before.

"Don't know," said Mordin, obviously puzzled.

Miranda laughed. "I had preexisting knowledge about the project and had EDI send a requisition order for the module. Last week, if I remember correctly."

Mordin nodded sagely. "Wise, very wise, Operative Lawson. Especially considering some of our more... _rash…_ colleagues' tendencies in battle. Excellent allocation of resources."

Shepard frowned dryly. "That's directed at me, I take it?"

Miranda smiled at him. "Of course not, Commander. I for one would _never_ suggest a propensity for suicidal carelessness on your part, and I'm _utterly_ certain that Dr. Solus shares my trepidation."

Mordin coughed, putting forth little effort to hide his smile. "Yes, of course. Would never suggest it. Purgatory mission will always serve as a shining example of Shepard's restraint and finesse, after all."

"Yeah, well, at least I've never set Jacob on fire," Shepard retorted.

"Accident," said Mordin, a little defensively. "Besides, didn't actually _immolate_ him, just singed shields…" A wide grin split Mordin's face in two. "But… point taken."

Shepard set the generator back on the lab bench. "Cerberus sure does seem to enjoy putting their logo on things," he observed. "This ship alone must have over a thousand of them."

_He has a point, _she mused. _Some of the uniforms are downright gaudy._

It was nice, chatting like this. Nice to have a break from walking the razor's edge separating life and death on the battlefield, so to speak. And, though she never would have anticipated anything of the sort, Mordin Solus had really grown on her. She found herself spending more and more of her rare downtime chatting with him, picking his brain, sharing stories. She both admired and shared Mordin's enthusiasm for solving difficult tasks, loved seeing that light in his eyes when he managed to circumvent an impossible obstacle. Those aforementioned moments were never in short supply – Mordin Solus ate "impossible obstacles" for breakfast.

_Along with those disgusting globs of mucus, _she thought with a shudder. Salarian cuisine had proved completely intolerable to her senses. Garrus, for one, could often be found complaining about it loudly.

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by EDI's serene, disembodied voice.

"Professor, I am detecting a small source of radiation from within the tech lab."

"What?" Miranda exclaimed, alarmed.

"Biotic amplifier research," Mordin explained, setting down his tools. "Complications… hmm… unexpected. Wouldn't have thought... Maybe – no, no, did that already."

He stopped pacing and addressed Shepard and Miranda. "Err, probably nothing to worry about, but… Maybe best to clear out for now."

Shepard shrugged in acquiescence. "I trust you not to kill us all, Mordin." He walked over and triggered the automatic door, nodding to Miranda. "Shall we, Ms. Lawson?"

She smiled at him in response. They walked together to the elevator.

"So what next, Shepard?" she asked. "Haestrom?"

"I don't know. That would be my first impulse, but I don't want to compromise or interfere with whatever Tali's doing."

She nodded. After seeing Shepard and Tali interact on Freedom's Progress, Miranda had come to the conclusion that their relationship was a fairly close one. Shepard was obviously quite fond of her, and from what Miranda had been able to glean from the quarian, the feeling appeared to be mutual.

"She's like a sister to me," Shepard said, watching her closely. She scrubbed at a dark stain on her sleeve as an excuse to look away. Sometimes, in talking with him, she found herself unable to shake the decidedly uncomfortable notion that Shepard could read minds.

"I understand," Miranda replied. She did, after a fashion. She and Oriana didn't exactly have any relationship to speak of, but she understood the protective impulse, the desire to shield a loved one from harm.

"But her duty to the Migrant Fleet is important to her, and to be honest, I'm not even sure how I feel about asking her to come, anyway," he reflected, suddenly looking pensive and distant. "It's such a long shot that any of us will come back alive…"

_That's easy enough to understand, _she thought. _I'd certainly be hesitant to ask anyone I cared about to follow me through an uncharted mass relay._

Shepard's spirits had improved markedly since the situation with Garrus had resolved itself, and the whole ship seemed to be glad of it. Garrus was something of an enigma with most of the crew, likely in part because of his race, but everyone liked Shepard, and his distress had a way of rubbing off on everyone else. He was one of those rare people who seemed to influence the world around him simply by _being._

The elevator admitted them to the crew deck. He came back to earth, gave her a quick parting smile and headed off toward the mess hall, probably for a late lunch. She watched him go, deciding on a whim to return to her cabin for a bit. She wasn't hungry, and the Normandy was grounded for maintenance until the following morning. Surely the ship could spare her presence for a few hours.

She sat down at her desk, checking her mail by rote. A message from Shepard, kindly informing her, tongue in cheek, that anymore "destructive tampering" on her part would result in his "swift and decisive action," namely her removal as his executive officer.

She laughed aloud. Over the past couple of days, the two of them had become engaged in a rapidly-escalating feud, of sorts. He'd written her an email, obviously composed in an idle moment with the sole intention of getting on her nerves. "Grunt says he has a brother back on Korlus. I'm thinking of going back and picking him up. How would you like to open the pod in the cargo bay?" it read. Her reply had been both terse and mischievous: "Unfortunately, I shall have to pass, Commander. Perhaps _you_ should have a go at it, instead. Maybe a repeat of that ridiculous decision will result in some sense being beaten into that thick, Neanderthal skull of yours." His response had been only three words: "This means war."

He'd been true to his word – the following morning, to her immense surprise, her desktop had somehow been affected to display a full-screen picture of what appeared to be a choice selection of raw meat from Gardner's freezer. She had followed up on this transgression by convincing EDI, who had been unexpectedly complicit and eagerly conspiratorial, to change all the display language on Shepard's terminal to an archaic volus dialect. She and Shepard had subsequently continued to exchange jabs back and forth until this afternoon, when Miranda succeeded in hacking his email account and changing his password to "miranda_wins."

_He conceded defeat gracefully,_ she thought, amused. The whole thing had been surprisingly fun and quite out of character for her. She never would have imagined herself engaging in this kind of playful behavior with a commanding officer; in the past, she'd even rebuffed comparable attempts. But reading that message, imagining him sitting there, dressed for bed, the cheeky, impish grin on his face as he composed it and clicked "Send"… It had been too much. She'd responded almost without thinking about it.

_At least now he knows who between us is the technologically superior, _she smiled to herself, scanning the rest of her inbox. A message from Mack Dodgson, a Cerberus requisitions officer she'd contacted about some of Mordin's new toys. That could wait. A quick note from the Illusive Man that she'd skimmed earlier regarding the Citadel operation. A message from Lanteia, one of her contacts on Illium. An "urgent" message from someone named "Eric," probably junk mail –

She stopped dead, her good humor instantly obliterated by a nauseating surge of fear. Icy cold fingers seemed to clamp down on her spine.

_… Lanteia? What could Lanteia possibly…?_

She opened it hastily, dangerously close to panic. The message was short, only a few quick sentences:

_He's found her. Come as soon as you can. I have no idea what to expect._

_Lanteia_

The bottom seemed to drop out of her stomach. She could feel her heart pounding in her ears, and her hands clenched the sides of her desk as she battled the sudden onset of vertigo.

_He's found her. He's found Oriana._

_Oriana…_

Suddenly, her recent correspondence with Niket took on an entirely different meaning.

_He wouldn't. He knew why I left, he'd have to understand why I did it,_ she thought frantically. Why would he betray her now, after all this time?

_He didn't know you took Oriana._

How had he found her? Miranda had been so careful, so precise… What could have gone wrong? She couldn't come up with any explanation (_betrayal_) that made sense, but it was impossible for her to put anything past her father. And all the money he could offer…

_Niket… No. I refuse to believe it. Maybe I'm being foolish, but he wouldn't! Not after everything I went through!_

She forced herself to calm down, closing her eyes and taking measured, deep breaths, feeling some of her fear slowly ebb away, only to be replaced by anger and determination. What could her father hope to gain from this? Did he think Oriana would simply drop everything, abandon her family, jettison all her plans for the future and simply be content to do his bidding?

_Is it revenge you want? Trying to get back at me, are you? _

It was her worst fear, her deepest, darkest fear come to life, and she truly could not imagine a worse possible time for this to happen. In all the years since she'd run away, that fear had never truly escaped her, but over the past several years, she had finally allowed herself to hope… She stifled an anguished cry. What would he do if Oriana refused to cooperate with him? Kill her? Surely he could have another _made _as easily.

_He's insane. Completely insane!_

She had finally managed to get her breathing and heart rate under control. The fear was still there, gnawing away at her like a hungry rat, but she was also furious. And determined. Her father enjoyed the command of virtually unlimited resources, but she would not, _could _notlet him win.

_Shepard will help. He has to. And if he won't, I'll find a way, _she thought, fighting back angry tears. She quickly began keying in a reply to Lanteia's message, her mind already consumed with planning.

_Hang on, Oriana. I'm coming._

* * *

_Thane_

The beauty of the Illium skyline was entirely lost on Thane Krios. The sun was setting, and he sat in a plush leather chair in his penthouse suite, in front of the large window overlooking the heart of the city in all its splendor. Thane's eyes were deadened to aesthetics; whenever he looked out this window, he was drawn inexorably to his target. The Dantius Towers, one a sharpened steel spire, the other yet incomplete, clinging to its side like a malformed, underdeveloped twin. He took a sip of bitter liquor from the glass at his side. The taste was actually quite unpleasant, but he enjoyed the numbing effect the drink had on his senses.

Nassana was there. If he went now, today, he would likely find her security woefully unprepared for him. In the many years that he'd been plying his trade, Thane had never failed to take down a mark. Nassana Dantius was notoriously ruthless and extremely paranoid, but her impregnable tower and dauntless security force would not save her from him. He knew this. And yet, he delayed, drinking himself into a stupor, both consciously and unconsciously seeking the one thing impossible to any drell: to forget.

In the "informed" circles, "Thane Krios" was a known name – a feared name. Already there were whispers. A few days more and there might be shouts. Once Nassana caught wind of him, her bodyguard would likely double or even triple. He smiled humorlessly to himself.

_Perhaps that's what I've been seeking, after all. A challenge._

_Or a swift end._

The prospect of his impending death brought him little pain or sadness. He was not afraid to die – in some ways, he would welcome it. The ten years since Irikah's death had been both long and empty. To Thane's way of thinking, he'd been dead a long time already. His body toiled on methodically; he survived by taking lives, as he had always done, but his thoughts were bleak and fatalistic. Under the umbrella of the Compact, the dualistic philosophy of his people had helped to shield him from the weight of his sins, but now... It was too much. Too much death. There was more blood on his hands than he could ever, ever wash off, and he recalled every detail, down to the last drop.

A soft knock at his door shook him from his reverie.

"Yes. Come in."

"I brought your liquid poison," said Mehlia's familiar voice. He'd expected as much.

"Thank you," he replied, his low, rasping voice without a shred of emotion. "Set it on the counter, if you will. There is money for you there, as well."

She circled around his chair, parading herself in front of him. "My shift is over, you know."

He didn't respond. Mehlia had been waiting on him since he'd first arrived at the hotel. She was a very young asari, likely no older than he, and her desire to bed him could not have been more obvious had she strode into the room wearing only a smile. Likely she'd heard some of the rumors. So much the better. For his part, he supposed that she was beautiful, noted it in an abstract sort of way, but he had no real interest in satisfying her curiosity.

"Thank you, Mehlia," he repeated, politely. She was dressed in tight leather and heeled boots, like a dancer.

_Perhaps she's missed her calling, _he thought without amusement.

She seemed content to ignore the obvious dismissal, settling herself comfortably on the floor at his feet. He wondered idly how long he could successfully ignore her.

"There's a Justicar in Nos Astra, did you hear?" she said excitedly, pressing her chest firmly against his leg.

"Yes," Thane deadpanned. It had been impossible to avoid hearing it, even shut inside his rooms. An asari Justicar… Now, that would be something to see, indeed. Perhaps she would learn of his presence on Nos Astra and take a personal interest in him. Privately, he hoped not. At least, not until he finished with Nassana. If he still lived then, an end at a Justicar's hands would be an indisputably worthy one.

"Did you hear me?" Mehlia cooed. Her hands had now found their way onto the tops of his thighs. He pushed her away gently. "I said I brought wine, if you'd prefer…"

"Mehlia. Please."

She grinned at him devilishly, still undeterred. "Are you married? Is that the problem? She'll never know, Thane. Unless you tell."

He was unsurprised by her use of his name; he simply stared at her, nonplussed.

"I've always had a thing for bad boys," she continued, trying to crawl onto his lap. He momentarily considered giving in and sleeping with her, if only to avoid making her angry, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he gently but firmly rebuffed her, placing his hands on her shoulders and forcing her to her feet.

"You are very charming, Mehlia. Truly. I am sorry that I cannot provide what you seek. Please forgive me, but I wish to be alone now."

She frowned at him disbelievingly, but she gave it up, perhaps piqued at his ability to resist her advances. Apparently the eidetic memory characteristic of his species was lost on her – if he sought companionship, he needed only to search through his past.

"Have it your way," she shrugged.

"Thank you for the liquor," Thane repeated, his tone unchanged. "There is money on the counter."

She left without another word, leaving his rooms blessedly quiet. He took another sip of the bitter tonic and leaned back, slowly drifting away.

_Perhaps someone will come upon me and kill me in my weakness. Like Marat in his bath, _he thought randomly, thinking of a human painting he'd once seen.

If it happened, he would not fret overmuch. This was to be his last job, at any rate, and he had no client for it. He'd decided to make Nassana a personal project, of sorts. A last, feeble attempt to cleanse his conscience, perhaps. He didn't hold out much hope for that.

_There is an ocean of blood in my wake. What change will one drop of water bring to a sea?_

He hated feeling this way; he was tired of seeing only darkness in the world. At least his decision to leave Kolyat's raising to others seemed wise under the current circumstances. He'd never been a good father, despite what Irikah wanted to believe. She had seen beauty in his soul, had somehow come to love him in spite of what he was. But Kolyat… he was better off without a father.

He sighed. It was past time to have this done. With Mehlia bold enough to voice her suspicion, he felt reasonably sure that Nassana would soon learn of his presence on Illium, one way or another. Part of him relished the opportunity to test his skills against the best that Eclipse could provide. Nassana would spare no expense in the interest of preserving her own hide.

Tonight, however, he would drink. He would drink until he couldn't move, and over the next few days, he would wait for the perfect moment. He was a master composing his last symphony, after all, and he wanted it to be perfect.

The liquor was strong. He downed the rest of the glass, exhaling drowsily as the warm liquid burned its way down his throat. The setting sun felt pleasantly warm on his face as drunken delirium overtook him, and when he fell asleep, he did not dream.

* * *

_Samara_

The rooms were an absolute luxury. She had accepted far worse, but the powers-that-be on Illium had insisted. In her experience, those most eager to pamper her often felt they had the most to hide, and on Illium that was almost assuredly true. She was fully accustomed to being treated with wariness, if not outright hostility, but Illium was something else entirely. So many species, so many people… Likely, the authorities were afraid that the Code might compel her to kill a non-asari, thereby sparking an interspecies incident.

_A reasonable enough apprehension,_ she mused, testing the temperature of her bath water. She smiled: perfect. Product of ill-gotten wealth or no, the Code did not forbid her a bath, and she awaited the steaming, soapy water eagerly.

She stripped to her bare skin and settled herself gently into the tub, sighing in ecstasy as the almost painfully-hot water lapped over her hips, her stomach, her breasts, under her chin. _This_ was truly a luxury. The tub was almost obscenely large; even Samara, rather tall for an asari, was able to stretch her long legs easily.

The spaceport city of Nos Astra served as home to criminals beyond count, sophisticated and petty alike. Samara had decided not to allow herself to become diverted. The authorities had made their position perfectly clear: her presence was respected and tolerated, but she really could not _possibly_ leave soon enough to suit them. She had no wish to become entangled in this world's affairs, at any rate; her business lay elsewhere. Besides, this soulless, corporate world did not suit her.

With nearly a thousand years' worth of knowledge and experience at her disposal, Samara's emotions rarely surprised her – her self-awareness was refined to a razor's edge. Still, it seemed like centuries since she had truly enjoyed any sort of sensual pleasure. The hot water felt wonderful on her skin, and she was physically comfortable, but remaining calm and detached while Morinth roamed free required a great deal of discipline. It was ironic, really – for the follower of the Justicar Code, even the most simplistic of indulgences required restraint and self-control. Over all the long, long years since she'd sworn the oath, every pleasure, every moment of peace, had been tainted by her daughter's reign of terror. In sleep, the demon of the night winds haunted her dreams.

She closed her eyes, breathing deeply of the sweet-smelling fumes emanating from her bath in an effort to relax both body and mind. She would have to move quickly; likely, Morinth would learn of her arrival soon, if she hadn't already. Once the rumors of a Justicar in Nos Astra reached Morinth's ears, she would surely force Eclipse to smuggle her off-world. Samara was counting on that – confronting her daughter here would more than likely result in tremendous loss of life, something she hoped to avoid. Ideally, only Eclipse sisters would suffer for the Justicar's visit to Illium. As Eclipse required its members to commit murder in order to earn their uniforms, any and all of them were doomed in the Justicar's eyes.

This exercise had become almost mechanical over the years, but Morinth's shadowed existence was unraveling now. Using the mercenaries was a frantic act of desperation that would leave a trail a mile wide, even for someone without Samara's skills. She did not allow herself the luxury of hope, but she knew that in all the years that she had fruitlessly chased her daughter, Morinth had never appeared so vulnerable and afraid. Here, naked and alone, Samara allowed herself to feel a pang of sadness for her lost child.

_The worst, and best, are yet to come, _she thought sadly. Bringing an end to this pursuit would bring her relief beyond measure, but her daughter's hatred weighed heavily upon her now, as they both lived. Should Samara succeed in slaying her child, that hatred would follow her to her own grave. But their paths were set.

_I have made my peace with what I must do. Now it remains only to make peace with the deed itself_.

To do that, she would have to confront her daughter. She relaxed her muscles, reveling in the sultry embrace of the water, willing herself into the tranquil state required for meditation. She would allow herself two hours. Two hours of peace – then, the hunt would resume.


	11. Strangers

11 – _Strangers_

_Shepard_

"How's it working?" Shepard asked.

"It's rubbish," Zaeed replied in his typical abrasive tone. "Aiming is a crapshoot. Blasted thing damn near has a seizure if I even _think_ about pulling the trigger."

"I _said_ it just needs some tweaking," Jacob snapped irritably. The two of them stood huddled over Zaeed's Vindicator rifle, which lay disassembled on Jacob's workbench. "It's probably just a calibration issue. Once it's fixed, this baby will rip through shields like butter."

"Won't help if I can't hit anything," Zaeed muttered.

Jacob glared at him. "I could do this a lot easier without you hovering over me. Do you want it fixed or not?"

"Don't soil your spandex," Zaeed replied, in what Shepard assumed must be his attempt at a conciliatory tone.

"Don't push me, Zaeed," Jacob growled, turning back to his work.

"You guys gonna play nice?" Shepard asked.

Zaeed clapped Jacob on the back, hard. "Like one big, happy goddamn family."

"Don't touch me," said Jacob.

Shepard decided to leave them to it, heading through the automatic door to the CIC. They'd never be best friends, those two, but he didn't think they'd come to blows. Besides, he had enough to contend with without being saddled with the responsibility of babysitting people.

Kelly Chambers looked up as he approached, pretty as always, her short, reddish-brown hair carefully styled. He smiled at her. "Afternoon, Ms. Chambers."

She smiled back. "You know it's Kelly to you, Commander."

"My mistake," he replied, lowering his head in acknowledgement. "What can I do for you, Kelly?"

Her smile quickly faded. "Operative Lawson asked me to relay a message to you. She'd like to see you as soon as possible."

He frowned. "When was this?"

"Not five minutes ago. Frankly, Commander, I'm a little worried. She sounded… anxious. Uncharacteristically so."

That had to be true enough, considering that Miranda rarely displayed any sort of anxiety at _all_, in his experience. "Understood. I'll head down right now," he replied.

"I hope everything's okay," said Kelly.

He went straight to the lift, feeling apprehensive. Anything that worried Miranda enough to cause visible distress was probably worthy of his full attention. Maybe she'd finally ask him to get rid of Jack. Things seemed to have calmed down between those two, but it could just as easily get ugly again in a hurry. Maybe he'd been mistaken.

_Wouldn't be the first time I misread female body language._

The lift doors opened, admitting him to the crew deck. The mess hall was empty, and he walked straight across to Miranda's door, giving it a sharp tap.

"Come in," she called.

She was sitting at her desk, as usual, but he immediately saw what had caused Kelly's alarm. Her appearance was immaculate, as always, but her eyebrows were drawn, her fists clenched tightly, then suddenly relaxed as if she'd been previously unaware of it. She met his eyes, and matching her gaze, he realized something entirely unexpected.

_She's afraid_.

"Miranda, are you all right?"

"Shepard…" she began. Awkwardly. Another surprise. "I am… in the uncomfortable position of asking for your help."

He nodded reassuringly. "Don't worry. I'll do whatever I can. What's wrong?"

She explained about the message from her Illium contact, about her sister, her fear of what her father might do. It all came out in a rush, and she was unable to keep her emotions entirely out of the telling. He understood completely. Miranda almost never talked about personal matters – he got the impression that her sister's existence was the single most private aspect of her life. Airing all this out had to be difficult, and if she struggled with it a bit, so be it. Miranda was good at everything she did, but at this, she, like Shepard himself, was out of practice.

_Or maybe never learned at all._

It was an appalling tale, and the more he heard of it, the angrier he became. What sort of a man could _create_ children for his own personal use, like breeding pit bulls for dog fighting? What could he possibly hope to gain by taking an eighteen-year-old girl away from the only family she'd ever known?

_As talented as she is, he damaged her. It's no wonder she has trust issues._

"I don't know what he'll do," she finished. "I know what I went through when he was still chasing me. Only Cerberus saved me. They've kept Oriana hidden all this time, and now… I've got to get there first, Shepard." Her commanding tone and the fierce determination behind her bright blue eyes brooked no argument. She was more her usual self, now – angry, determined, and completely focused. Masking her fear and concealing her emotions, these were as natural to her as breathing.

"It's crazy," Shepard replied, in disbelief. "What does he think she'll do, just drop everything and magically be his dutiful, subservient daughter? And if she does, what does he gain? It doesn't sound like paternal affection factors much into his motivation."

"I've wondered along those same lines," she acknowledged. "And you can be certain that affection has nothing to do with it. It could be that he's only trying to get back at me for rescuing her."

That word, "rescue." It was obviously important to her to characterize it that way, as if she still struggled with justifying what she'd done, even to herself. He could understand that – taking such direct control over a person's life would hardly be a decision to undertake lightly. Her remembered her grim-faced characterization of herself as a genetically superior human, her description of the way the consequences of her mistakes were inevitably severe as a result. Miranda _never_ took things lightly.

_That possibility is tearing her up_, he realized. _The idea that he's motivated by vengeance. That all of this is somehow her fault._

She was beautiful, even in her distress, perhaps more so because of it. He felt a surge of strong affection for her, accompanied by fury at the unfairness of her situation. Even in this low state, alone and afraid, she was strong, tough, thoroughly in control; but her humanity, her vulnerability, shone through in her passion, in her fear and her anger, and she was extraordinarily, _achingly_ lovely. In that moment, he could scarcely have recalled how he had ever believed her callous or frigid; those blue eyes now smoldered with a fire that should have seared him to the bone. He found himself wanting nothing more than to inflict terrible pain upon the man who had done this to her.

"We'll go right now," he said, their eyes locked together. It seemed to him that an understanding came between them in that moment – she understood the concern he felt for her, the anger he shared on her behalf, understood it and accepted it gratefully. The air between them seemed to thicken until she turned her eyes away.

"Thank you, Shepard," she said sincerely. "This means a lot to me."

He nodded. "I know. Let your contact know we're coming. I'll have Joker get us on our way."

Standing outside her office door, he had to take a moment to collect himself. He _had _been angry. It was… unexpected.

_Don't get in over your head._

He forced his feelings, whatever they were, onto the back burner. He had promised to help her, and he would do everything in his power. She'd proven a terrific second-in-command. A friend, even, as unlikely as that would have seemed several months ago. And whoever this man sent after Miranda's little sister was in for a nasty shock, of the Claymore 300-M variety.

"All right there, Shepard?"

It was Garrus, regarding Shepard with an odd expression on his face. "You look strange," the turian added.

"Just thinking," Shepard replied.

"Yeah, well, if you always look that way when you're 'thinking,' I wouldn't do it too often," Garrus quipped. Shepard couldn't help but grin. His friend was finally himself again.

"Good to have you back, Garrus."

Garrus understood his meaning. He nodded slowly. "Thanks, Shepard."

Shepard nodded back. "Get some rest. We're hitting Illium ASAP."

"Garrus," Gabby shouted, "are you still alive out there? I can't do this by myself!"

"Coming, sweetheart," Garrus called, giving Shepard a rueful shrug. "Duty calls. But I'll be ready whenever you need me, Shepard."

Shepard waved him off, walking back across the mess hall and calling the lift, a certain dark-haired woman once again first and foremost in his thoughts.

_We won't let her down._

I _won't._

* * *

_Thane_

"You're Thane Krios, aren't you?"

He regarded her impassively from across the table. "It doesn't matter who I am."

The asari smiled at him, a knowing and conspiratorial smile. She leaned forward in her seat and lowered her voice. "Of course not. But assuming you were, I could, say, make a reasonable guess as to why you bought me a drink."

"Interesting," he replied noncommittally. The Eternity Lounge was less crowded at this hour, past midnight, but even at peak hours, he would have been able to hear her voice clearly. The music in Eternity was always low, earthy and subtle; there was never any boisterous behavior or shouting. It was a different sort of club, a very relaxed and sensual atmosphere. The nearest person to the table he shared with Seryna was a turian, alone and wholly absorbed in his cups. No one paid them the slightest bit of attention.

"_If_ I had to guess," Seryna continued, sipping her wine with a sly grin on her face, "I'd say you were… _interested_… in a former employer of mine. Nassana Dantius."

"Anything is possible," said Thane, returning her smile. _Clever,_ he thought. He liked her already.

"Well, if that were the case, it just so happens that I would be quite willing to help you." She killed her drink in a quick, unceremonious gulp. "But it's late, and I have a busy day tomorrow. What say we meet up some place quiet tomorrow evening and have a chat, you and I?" Her blue eyes twinkled with mischief. She was thoroughly enjoying this. Behind her, the aforementioned turian shuffled off toward the door.

"That would be agreeable," he replied. "Did you have a place in mind?"

"My office isn't far from here," she said, standing. He stood up, as well. "It's over on the cargo transfer level. How about meeting me by the dock at, say, seven-thirty?"

He bowed. "Very well. Until tomorrow, then."

They made small talk for another minute more; then, he walked her out of the bar, and the two went their separate ways. This arrangement would be fortuitous indeed. Seryna had been Nassana's head of security before being fired. He was unsure of the circumstances surrounding her termination, but given her obvious willingness to help him, the tale would likely prove an unpleasant one. He shook his head ruefully. Nassana should have known better. Seryna was young, smart, and clearly willing to get her hands a little dirty – sending her packing and carrying a grudge was a foolish mistake.

_A pity she will not live long enough to regret it._

Thane was a deeply spiritual man, but the prospect of Nassana Dantius' death did not trouble him overmuch. She was a herald of suffering, consumed by greed; her merciless influence had ended and broken lives almost beyond count. Thane's hands would bring justice to those she had wronged. He was not a creator; he was a bringer of death, and if he wanted to visit good upon the galaxy, his only option was to do so through the subtraction of evil.

He walked silently through the streets, clinging to the shadowed alleyways purely by instinct. Silence and stealth had been bred in him since early youth, but tonight it seemed an unnecessary precaution. Illium could be a dangerous place, especially for the unwary, but Thane Krios was not afraid of the dark. His death waited off in the near distance, tantalizingly close, a soft, muted light at the end of a dark tunnel. When the goddess Kalihira came for him, he would greet her with a grateful sigh and a lover's embrace. His life had dragged on too long already. Its end was long overdue.

The alley he walked gave way to a market thoroughfare, utterly empty at this hour, the shops and kiosks dark and lonely. Utterly empty… or not. A lone asari stood over by the railing, her back to him, staring out toward the city. His movement must have caught her eye; she turned sharply to face him, and he found himself taken aback. She was a beautiful creature, tall, both slender and voluptuous. He watched her, entranced, for a few moments before turning back the way he'd come. He trusted his instincts, and they cautioned him to avoid her eyes. It was very late – he should be inside, away from prying eyes.

_A knife in the back… That would be both an unfortunate and unpleasant end._

He made his careful way back to the hotel, his hidden little home. The stars and intermittent lights of the city guided his path.

* * *

_Samara_

The Nos Astra skyline was a breathtaking spectacle. Massive, impossibly tall towers, gleaming in the night with thousands of glittering lights, like stars in the great empty void of space… it was a glorious city, stretching as far as the eye could see, but to Samara's eyes, that beauty was marred, tainted by the evil presence lurking somewhere in that dazzling, radiant labyrinth. The word was well and truly out, now – a Justicar walked the streets of Nos Astra. Morinth would be afraid, now, but she would be cautious.

The sky above was the pitch dark of the small hours of the morning. Samara preferred the night in large cities to the incessant stir and commotion of the daytime hours. In heavily populated cities like Nos Astra, the night hours could be very peaceful by way of contrast – the distinct absence of the daily-present rumblings of activity augmented her sense of tranquility. Walking these empty streets in the post-midnight hours produced a loneliness in her that was not entirely unpleasant. It reminded her very much of the awe she had felt so long ago, a small child looking up at the Thessian sky at all the countless stars and worlds beyond.

She stood at the edge of the street, staring out at the heart of the city, when the sounds of uneven footsteps reached her ears. A turian male ambled down the street toward her. In her general direction, at least; his gait was halting and jerky, his path meandering and uncertain. He was evidently very heavily intoxicated.

"How much for a favor, pretty lady?" he asked, his voice slurred and distant. She had been prepared to defend herself, but realized she needn't have worried. He was probably harmless.

"Go home," she said, not unkindly.

"Go home, she says," he growled, staggering toward her. She recoiled from him instinctively, and he fell flat on his on his face. The sound of the impact was unbearably harsh, as if someone had dropped an open toolbox from a third-story window.

"Go home! I'm a complete mess! Hahahaha!" he nearly screamed, bursting into hysterical laughter. As he lay there, spluttering, his laughter gradually morphed into miserable, drunken wailing. Samara found herself quite at a loss.

"Let me help you," she offered, kneeling over him and extending a hand. The turian seemed not to hear her; his body wracked with sobs, his face pressed directly into the ground. He folded his claws over the back of his head as if shielding himself from an explosive blast.

"I love her!" he howled. "I love her and she won't even look at me! _She won't look at me!!_"

_Surely he cannot mean me_, she thought anxiously, looking around surreptitiously. He must have come from Eternity; this was a business district, and all the shops were closed at this hour. The street was empty, save the pair of them.

"Nobody knows…what it's like…" he babbled dejectedly. "We're _meant_ for each other! Why?!" he screamed again, beating his scaled fist against the hard, metallic surface of the street with a loud _clang._ "Why did I ever leave Palaven? Why did I ever set _foot _on this horrible rock!? I wish… I wish I never even _heard_ of quarians!!"

_Not me, then, _she thought wryly.

She placed a hand on his arm, hesitantly, strangely unsure herself and uncertain what to do. "Please. Let me help you."

He staggered to his feet abruptly and lurched forward, bent over, hurtling onward almost comically, as if intending to tackle someone. She thought for certain that he would fall again, but somehow he managed to right himself and stagger on, sobbing and muttering to himself. He seemed to have quite forgotten her.

She stared after him in silence, trying to sort through her feelings in the wake of this strange experience. Illium was a very alien place to her; as a Justicar, she very rarely left asari space. But it wasn't as if she had no experience in dealing with people. By its very nature, her role as a Justicar compelled her to interact with others, albeit distantly. It had been years, many years, since she'd had a real relationship of any kind with another person – she'd made a habit of giving very little of herself since adopting the Code.

She felt _something_, though. Of that, there was no doubt. That pitiful, weeping wretch had affected her profoundly. But this encounter wasn't especially unique. Goddess, he wasn't even the first drunken turian who had accosted her in the street.

_He spoke to me as a person. As a woman_, she thought abruptly, and she realized with a jolt of sadness that this encounter had simply triggered a memory. An old, old memory, of a time centuries gone. A memory of her mate.

_Lynaia_…

She closed her eyes, allowing the old wounds to tentatively split open. It had been near the end, that night. They had both been there, at the hospital; they had both heard. Their children, their poor children…

_"My daughters… my sweet, beautiful babies… Why, Samara? Why!?"_

Lynaia had been drunk herself, that night, stricken with inconsolable grief. Many tears were shed between them; they cried in one another's arms, cried themselves to sleep, and in the morning, when Samara awoke, red-eyed and exhausted, Lynaia was gone. She'd left no note; the burden, the guilt, had simply proved more than she could take. Samara neither saw nor heard from her again.

_Old wounds_, she reiterated silently. She felt a muted, dull version of that pain, of what had once been a terrible sense of loss, but she did not cry. Her tears for Lynaia had long since been shed. But it was strange, remembering those days. She had been a very different woman then. Happy, carefree, full of laughter. It was almost difficult to believe, in spite of her memories. The woman who had danced away countless nights, who'd laughed until she couldn't breathe, she who had greeted every new day with a smile and the promise of some new mischief… Could this truly be the same woman, the same asari who now stood on this shadowed, empty street in Nos Astra, a taciturn follower of the Justicar Code whose people skills were woefully out of practice?

For a brief moment, she pined for that woman now centuries dead. She would have given anything, anything at all, to have those years back, her love and her three children within arm's reach, _anywhere _but this dreadful, horrible, soulless world, mired hopelessly in an inescapable conflict with the one she most loved but was forever sworn to destroy. For a brief moment… but then it was gone. She stood up straight, eyes straight ahead, the unfaltering Justicar once more.

She caught a flicker of movement to her left and spun around abruptly. There was someone in the alley across the way, watching her. The figure was hidden in the shadows, indistinct, but it looked… human, most likely. Male. They watched one another for a moment more before the human pushed himself away from the building, turned and walked back the way he had come. Samara stared after the figure for a moment, then decided to put it out of her mind.

_I've enough to worry me without jumping at shadows._

Whoever he had been, human or otherwise, he was gone. Someone in Morinth's employ, perhaps. More than likely, just another unnamed stranger to cross her path. Not the first, and certainly not the last. She started back toward her rooms, suddenly very tired.

Morinth wouldn't be on Illium much longer; of that, she was certain. Picking up her trail in the wake of her departure would be a simple matter of asking the Eclipse sisters where she'd gone, as she would undoubtedly coerce the mercenaries into smuggling her off-world. She would ask them, and if they refused to tell, she would kill them. Simple. The greatest hurdle would likely be the Illium authorities, even though it was her understanding that nearly all of the Eclipse presence on Illium was asari. She certainly did not relish the possibility of conflict with law enforcement, but she would follow the Code as she always had.

_What comes, comes_, she thought placidly. She was tired, and would sleep well. Tomorrow, the Justicar Samara would truly come upon this city.

And peace find the souls of any who stood in her way.


	12. Dangerous People

Author's Notes: _There sure are a lot of elevators on this mission._

* * *

12 – _Dangerous People_

_Shepard_

Most generals prefer to stand apart from the fight, directing battles from afar, where their strategies and keen grasp of tactics may best be employed. Julian Shepard was not a general and likely never would be; in the heat of battle, his instincts and adrenaline-enhanced reflexes guided him, more often than not into the heart of the firefight. He wouldn't have it any other way.

He was crouched now, hunkered down behind a large shipping crate, the lithe and deadly Kasumi Goto at his side. Bullets sprayed and ricocheted all around them, familiar sounds of battle mingling with the raised voices of Eclipse soldiers, screaming and shouting from all around the transport yard. The mercs were deadly enough and numerous, but decidedly lacking in both training and discipline. They gave ground stubbornly, but they were no match for Shepard's squad.

"What've we got, Zaeed?" Shepard called, engaging his communicator and speaking loudly enough to be heard over the cacophony.

"Just sit tight," came Zaeed's steady reply. "I count six, but they won't reach you. Lawson and I are returning fire. The turian and the others should be on 'em before long –

A hail of gunfire suddenly erupted from their right, accompanied by a maniacal, barbaric shout.

"RAAAAAAAAGGH!"

"Sounds like Grunt's having fun," said Kasumi.

He risked a glance around the edge of the crate. From what he could see, two of the mercs were down; a dead salarian lay gaping at him lifelessly, a large, roughly circular hole almost directly between his bulging, glazed eyes. Garrus' work, almost certainly. The other mercs were nearly backed against the elevator doors. Their captain had ordered the elevators locked down in the interest of "slowing the bitch down"; likely, these mercenaries wouldn't survive that unfortunate order much longer.

"If I cloak, I can cover you from behind that truck," said Kasumi, pointing to a small forklift about twenty yards to their right.

Shepard nodded. "Do it. Stay out of the crossfire."

She disappeared. He readied his weapon, awaiting her signal. "Zaeed, where are you?"

"Here," said Miranda breathlessly, sidling in next to him. Zaeed appeared just as suddenly, Vindicator rifle in hand.

"Working all right?" Shepard asked.

Zaeed nodded, patting the rifle affectionately. "Like a charm. I suppose our good friend Jacob does know what he's doing, after all."

The sounds of gunfire petered out abruptly, slowing to a few short bursts and then stopping altogether.

"All clear, Shepard," said Garrus' voice over the radio.

He let his shotgun dangle at his side and started over toward the elevator to join the others. It was a bloodbath; ten or eleven dead mercenaries littered the platform, an almost even mixture of humans, salarians, and asari. They all went down with difficulty, but the asari were far and away the most skilled and discipline of the lot, and apparently this Captain Enyala was an asari, as well.

"All right, Garrus, you and your team take that lift across the way," he instructed.

"Aww, but I wanted to come with you and the Princess," Jack pined sarcastically. She and Grunt were both covered in blood; the krogan in particular looked like the canvas of some kind of abstract painting.

Shepard ignored her, as he had learned to do. She wasn't really complaining – when Jack took issue with an order, she never minced words or employed sarcasm. Trying to irritate Miranda was just second nature to her. When she voiced a true complaint, it was usually in the form of "fuck you."

"I don't know how many are up there, but this is probably going to get ugly soon," he continued.

"You mean it hasn't already?" Kasumi smiled.

"There were three ships," said Jacob. "There can't be more than ten or twelve left, if that."

"Then assume fifteen," said Miranda tersely. "EDI, progress with the elevators?"

"The cargo elevators are now fully functional, Operative Lawson," came EDI's deadpan reply.

"Then let's go," said Miranda. "We can discuss strategy en route."

"Fair enough," Shepard agreed, nodding to Garrus. He, Jacob, Grunt, and Jack started toward the other lift.

Shepard took a moment to look around, trying to get his bearings. The cargo terminal was a giant labyrinth of crates, conveyor belts, and assorted heavy machinery, but the signs and arrows on the walls and floor made it easy enough to navigate. Both lifts led to dock 94, and it was likely that Eclipse had at least one of them covered. The mercenaries' radio transmissions indicated that they knew Shepard had his squad split in two, but the mercs didn't seem to have any indication of their numbers. Shepard would use that against them, if he could. With so few of them left, the mercs would likely be hesitant to spread themselves too thin.

Shepard and Miranda boarded the elevator, Zaeed and Kasumi close on their heels. It was large enough to accommodate the four of them easily, with room to spare.

"Maybe their commander _knows _we're listening in and she's feeding us false information about Niket, trying to throw us off," said Miranda. She was tense, wound up tighter than Shepard had ever seen her. Privately, Shepard thought betrayal was the most likely explanation for her old friend's presence here, though he felt that it would be pointless to voice his opinion.

_She knows already. She doesn't want to believe it, but she knows._

"You know him best, Miranda," he said gently. _Woe betide him if he gets in her way._

"I don't know… Dammit, why can't this thing go any faster!" she snapped, bashing the elevator's control panel with her fist.

"It's a cargo elevator," said Zaeed dryly. "They don't build 'em for speed, sweetheart."

Shepard glared at him, prompting a shrug from the older man, as if to say, 'What? She asked.' Kasumi shook her head ruefully.

"Easy," said Shepard, touching Miranda's shoulder. "Can't be much longer now."

"I'm fine," she said woodenly, "just anxious. I'm ready to have a word with this _Captain Enyala._"

_A word or a handful of bullets, _he thought, considering the hard, unwavering look on her face, his own emotions a roiling current inside his head.

He wanted to help her. She looked terribly distressed and far away, her tormented emotions emerging through the cracks in her carefully-constructed façade of cold indifference. This was the real Miranda Lawson – scared, yes, and angry, but strong, resolute… deadly. Her life was flashing before her; the most important person in her life was now in danger, her sister, her greatest and most important responsibility, as she saw it. And now, the closest friend of her childhood, perhaps the only person she had allowed herself to trust, had in all likelihood betrayed her. He shared her anger, wanted nothing more than to crush her enemies beneath his feet, to make them pay for causing her to suffer. He wanted to take her into his arms, hold her and comfort her, assure her that he would help her make this right… He shook his head abruptly, forcing away these distracting thoughts. This was definitely not the time.

_So I care about her. I have feelings for her. So what?_

_"Enamored" might be more the word_, said a sly little voice. He shoved it aside brusquely.

"Heads up," said Zaeed.

"Ready weapons," Shepard commanded. "Garrus?"

"Still on the elevator," the turian replied. "Where's Tali when you need her?"

The lift came to a slow, grinding halt. Shepard took point, tucking his shotgun in tight against his shoulder.

_Here we go again._

* * *

_Miranda_

She couldn't believe it. Didn't want to believe it. Her friend, her (_only_) childhood friend…

She swallowed down the massive lump in her throat, forced herself to focus. Niket had betrayed her. He was there at the dock with Captain Enyala; she didn't see any other mercenaries, but they had to be there somewhere. No sounds of gunfire, aside from Enyala's unceremonious execution of the lone dock worker in attendance as the poor woman tried to flee. Maybe Garrus and the others had slipped in undetected. She swallowed again. Focus. It was difficult. Her mind felt foggy and full of mush.

_Niket… Why? I don't understand…_

His words were harsh and accusatory, and his judgmental tone hurt her more than she would ever admit. This was the first time she'd actually seen Niket in many years, but he looked just the same as he ever had – age had scarcely left a mark upon him. He'd grown a beard, and his hair was neatly trimmed, but his face remained a near-perfect reflection of her childhood friend. She remembered climbing trees with him as a child, taking walks with him, the innocent little crush she'd developed on him as an early teenager…

"Even if you don't agree with Miranda, her father is still trying to take a girl away from her family," Shepard said. "What kind of loving father sends an army of mercenaries to snatch his daughter away from the only parents she's ever had?"

"He can still give her a better life," Niket insisted. This was going nowhere, and she found herself getting angry. How _dare _he judge her? Trying to assuage his own guilt with this "better life" nonsense, as if he didn't know full well what sort of man he was dealing with! How dare he even get _involved_ in Oriana's life!

"Bullshit," said Shepard, standing close by her side. His voice sounded very cool and calm, but Miranda knew him, and she was surprised to recognize the presence of anger in his tone. "A better life than Cerberus can provide? That's absurd."

"I'm about ready to wrap this up," Enyala snapped. "Niket, let's just kill the bitch and go."

"Take your best shot," Miranda retorted angrily.

"I was just waiting for you to finish getting dressed. Or does Cerberus really let you whore around in that outfit?"

Miranda bristled indignantly. This bitch was getting on her last nerve.

"Look," Shepard interrupted, "if we're going to avoid anymore bloodshed, we've got to come up with another solution. Obviously, since Miranda's father has been able to locate -

"Miranda's father… has no information about Oriana," Niket interrupted reluctantly, turning to address Miranda. "I knew you had spy programs in your father's systems, Miri, so I kept it private. I'm the only one who knows."

Her mouth felt dry as she trained her pistol on him. "Which means you're the only loose end. I never wanted it to end this way, Niket…"

There wasn't any choice. She had only one option. Icy fingers seemed to wrap around her heart.

"I'll… I'll miss you."

As her finger squeezed down on the trigger, a strong hand clamped down on her arm. She released her hold on the trigger and glared at Shepard indignantly, but the look on his face surprised her, a blending of anxiety and concern.

"Don't, Miranda. You don't want to kill him."

She snatched her arm away irritably. _I don't _want _to? Who are you to tell me what I want to do?_

"This has to end here, Shepard," she said instead. "He'll never stop looking for her."

"Maybe Niket can help," Shepard said pointedly. She looked at Niket and saw shame in his eyes. He'd seen her willingness to kill him, felt the weight of his betrayal…

_He should be ashamed! He deserves whatever he gets!_

"I'll… tell him that you hid her," Niket stammered pathetically. Concern for his own life, or regret for what he'd done? "That you got here first. That I don't know where she is."

_How can I trust him, after this?_

_He'll do it… He wouldn't lie. He's never lied to me..._

"I never want to see you again, Niket," she nearly snarled, her anger and misery reaching a fever pitch. She'd wanted to see him dead for what he'd done, because he (_hurt me_) betrayed her, made a _deal _with that horrible man for her sister's life –

A loud _boom _abruptly and instantly filled the air, its suddenness staggering her momentarily. Niket's chest seemed to pulse outward, and she felt her own kinetic barriers activate, absorbing a series of minor impacts. A shotgun blast. Niket collapsed like a broken puppet, his chest a raw, gaping ruin.

"Done," said Enyala nonchalantly, a small tendril of smoke curling up obscenely from the tip of her shotgun's barrel. "Now if you don't mind, I have a shipment to deliver."

Biotic power surged through Miranda in a fury. All thoughts were erased, replaced by a blind, unquenchable rage.

"You'll die for that, bitch!" she screamed.

Before Enyala could react, Miranda enveloped her in a field of biotic energy, suspending her helpless in midair. She wanted to tear this monster limb from limb, to smash her to a bloody pulp, and she concentrated all her energy, every ounce of concentration she could muster, into blasting the bitch into biotic oblivion. She inhaled sharply, preparing to release, and then…

_Boom._

Enyala exploded. There was no other word for it. Miranda's stasis field had allowed Shepard to close the distance between himself and the mercenary captain, and at that close range, with that giant krogan shotgun, her body may as well have been papier-mâché. Her body separated at the stomach in a fountain of blood, her torso and legs tumbling off in opposite directions. It was both gruesome and satisfying, but she nearly blasted Shepard with the shockwave she'd intended for the asari.

_The lunatic…_

_She should've been mine._

More mercenaries poured out of the elevator on the room's far side, but it was a massacre. Garrus' group was waiting for them; Archangel was a master of the ambush, after all. She saw Grunt charge, bellowing, into the fray, blowing an asari's head clean off with a well-placed shot. The mercs had little more than a moment of anguished surprise before being cut down by a storm of bullets. The fracas lasted for perhaps ten seconds; then, dead silence.

"I… am… KROGAN!" Grunt roared.

"You're a fucking idiot, is what you are," Jack snapped. "Running right in front of me, you're lucky I didn't shoot you."

Miranda let out a deep breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

_It's done. It's going to be all right. I can't believe we… Niket…_

She closed her eyes, refusing to look. It was idiotic, really. He'd betrayed her, and she'd been terribly, terribly angry, but… maybe Shepard was right. Maybe she would have regretted it.

_Shepard… _She smiled to herself. It had truly been as she'd said: they definitely never planned on _him_.

_If it's even possible to plan for Julian Shepard_.

It was a strange thing, that such a gentle, compassionate man could be capable of such incredible violence, such terrible anger.

_On my behalf_, she thought, and despite her frayed emotional state, that thought filled her with an unexpected warmth. She was grateful for his help, touched by his concern… It was so unexpected. That broken body, lying motionless on the operating table, her _project_ for two years, someone she'd seen as an utter hindrance to her cause and her authority... and she was becoming _close_ to him?

Garrus practically swaggered up to them, not a drop of blood on him, brandishing his rifle with what she supposed would pass for a self-satisfied grin on a turian. When he caught sight of Shepard's handiwork, however, he shook his head in distaste.

"Geez, Shepard. You sure you got her? I mean, if you're positive…"

"How do you even know I did it?" Shepard asked indignantly.

Garrus snorted. "Are you kidding?"

"Let's just… leave that over there," Kasumi offered gingerly, stepping lightly over a puddle of blood and pointedly not looking down at Enyala's bottom half.

Shepard turned to her. "You okay, Miranda?"

"Yes," she replied, looking him in the eyes, for her part avoiding looking at Niket. "But I'd like to go to the passenger deck to make sure Oriana makes it out okay."

He nodded in acquiescence. "All right. I'll go along. Garrus, you and one other come, too, just in case. Preferably someone not completely covered in blood. The rest can head back to the ship."

"Me!" said Kasumi.

The four of them walked silently to the elevator, leaving the grisly scene behind them. She would not allow herself to feel much relief until she could be certain that Oriana would be all right.

* * *

_Garrus_

This, at least, was a passenger elevator and moved with appropriate speed. If he never saw another cargo elevator again, it would be too soon.

"Shepard…" said Miranda. "Thank you. For stopping me."

Garrus looked on curiously, confused.

"Don't worry about it," said Shepard.

"I could have handled it, but…"

"I know you could have."

"I just didn't see it coming," she said miserably.

"Would you stop?" Shepard said in an understanding tone.

"But I let it get personal and I screwed up…"

"You're human. We all make mistakes."

"All _humans_ make mistakes," Garrus added in a laughably arrogant tone. Kasumi sniffed and gave his shin a swift kick. Miranda and Shepard seemed to ignore them.

A silence ensued. Garrus watched the pair of them, apparently absorbed in simply staring at one another. He started to say something else, but Kasumi elbowed him sharply. Her eyes twinkled merrily from inside her hood.

_Clearly something going on there,_ he thought, amused.

The lift opened into a disconcertingly bright and crowded transport terminal. After the hellacious battle in the cargo area, this was like walking into paradise. Shepard's dark and stained armor received a number of odd looks – he'd certainly ignored his own suggestion concerning bloodstains. Not to mention his thick, disheveled brown hair sticking out everywhere.

_Probably just didn't consider himself, _he thought wryly. Shepard sometimes had a tendency to overlook exceedingly obvious things.

"There she is," Miranda said suddenly. Garrus followed her eyes across the terminal and spotted Oriana immediately. She was impossible to miss, near mirror image of Miranda as she was. The resemblance wasn't perfect, though – Oriana wore her hair cut shorter, and her figure was fuller, curvier, more substantial in the waist. Still not attractive by turian standards, at any rate.

"She's safe," Miranda nearly whispered. "…with her family…"

"Don't you want to say 'hello'?" Shepard asked softly.

"It's not about what I want, it's about what's right for her," Miranda insisted. "She has a normal life with her family. I'd just complicate that for her."

Looking at Oriana, Garrus thought Miranda had a point. Twins they might be, but there _was_ something different about the younger woman. He couldn't place it at first, not being an expert at reading human faces; it was subtle, but Oriana's face was different. Happier. As if she were simply much more accustomed to smiling than her older sister.

"She doesn't need any details, but would it really be so bad for her to know she's got a sister who loves her?" Shepard asked.

Miranda was silent for a long moment, simply watching her sister from afar. She certainly did love Oriana; that much was obvious.

"I… I guess not."

"Go on," Shepard urged. "We'll wait here."

She went. Garrus walked back toward the elevator, joining Kasumi.

"Aren't they adorable?" Kasumi smiled.

"Huh?"

"The two of them," she continued. "Shep and Miranda. They're so cute together."

_Cute?_

"You're asking the wrong guy," Garrus replied dryly. "You humans all look the same to me."

She swatted his arm playfully. "Bah. Well, _I _think they're crazy about each other."

"Maybe," he allowed. He'd wondered the same thing, after all. "But Shepard's a soldier. I'm not sure he'd…"

"Not sure he'd what?" Kasumi prodded, grinning.

"It's just hard to imagine," Garrus finished.

"Oh, you're ridiculous," she harrumphed. "They're _both _soldiers. Both dangerous people. That can be a great source of passion, you know. I think it's romantic."

"Can we talk about something else?" he complained.

"You're a good shot with that rifle," she segued seamlessly. "But I bet I'm better."

"Really," he countered, his tone disbelievingly condescending. "Care to put it to a wager?"

"Let's see," she mused, touching a finger to her lips thoughtfully. "I'll wager 500 credits that you can't take down my shields at a hundred yards."

"You must be joking. I could hit you at three _times _that, in my sleep.." he trailed off, suddenly considering her cloaking tech. "That is, if we can agree to take any tactical cloaking off the table."

She laughed merrily. "But where's the fun in that? I thought Archangel was supposed to be the best!"

"Don't you ever get tired of talking?" he said, a little exasperated. He couldn't feel completely easy about having that name broadcast indifferently in a public transport terminal.

"Not with you. You're too much fun."

"Thrilled to hear it."

Shepard and Miranda soon joined them at the elevator, Miranda's eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Shepard watched her with obvious concern.

_She's right,_ he thought. _Definitely something there. But none of my business._

Still, maybe he'd ask Shepard about it later. If nothing else, the conversation might prove entertaining.

Kasumi grinned broadly at the pair of them and took Garrus' arm. "Shall we?"

* * *

_Miranda_

She was beautiful. Delightful. Meeting her filled Miranda with such joy, such overwhelming happiness that she could hardly stand it. All the doubts, all the suffering she had endured over her decision to rescue her baby sister – it had been worth it. Without question.

_She's so happy. So loved, _she thought, a tear trickling silently down her cheek. Her parents had been shocked, understandably. So had Oriana, but not for long. She was quick, very smart, just like her sister. They were good people, her parents. And Oriana…

_She's wonderful,_ Miranda thought happily. Her little sister smiled at her, held her gaze as the lift doors closed. She exhaled heavily, blinking her eyes rapidly. Two more hot, heavy tears trailed down her cheeks, and she wiped them away hastily.

_Enough with the crying. Get a hold of yourself._

An armored hand gently touched her back, silently offering comfort. Shepard. She closed her eyes and allowed her head to rest on his shoulder. It was over. Oriana would be fine. She could finally relax.

She pulled away from him, suddenly conscious of the eyes on them. Garrus cleared his throat abruptly.

"So… what next, Shepard?" the turian asked pointedly.

"Back to the ship," Shepard answered. "I've had enough for one day, haven't you?"

"Forty-eight hour firefights are my specialty," Garrus remarked sardonically. "Sleep is for the weak."

Miranda smiled, contentedly listening to their banter. Rest would be welcome. The relief she felt was overpowering; it would be nice to have a chance to savor it a bit before Shepard tossed them all into unreasonable danger again. She was grateful, so grateful to all of them, even Jack. She still had her sister. Her father couldn't take that away from her.

She still had something.


	13. Elevation

13 – _Elevation_

* * *

_Thane_

"You going in tonight?"

"Perhaps," Thane replied, his eyes locked on the towers in the center of the city. Tomorrow night, if everything went according to plan. He liked Seryna well enough, found her openness and honesty refreshing, but he saw no reason to tell her everything.

She seemed to understand, and she took it in stride. "Sure you don't want a drink?"

He looked at her questioningly. "It's almost midday. Are you not working?"

"Not for the next hour. And what they don't know won't hurt them, will it?" She winked at him playfully.

He nodded in acquiescence. No harm in it, he supposed. "Eternity, then?"

"Eternity. Embrace it."

He chuckled wryly. _I undoubtedly shall, before too much longer._

Kepral's was an insidious disease, creeping up on its victims like a thief in the shadows, slowly closing the distance before a final, triumphant pounce. As of now, the worst he'd suffered was a slight hit to his physical endurance – if he exerted himself for too long, his lungs would simply rebel against him, causing him to launch into a horrific gasping fit, an experience that he had absolutely no desire to repeat. But in less than a year, he had that to look forward to as a part of his daily life, assuming he survived his foray into the Dantius Towers. He fervently hoped it wouldn't come to that. Death by slow suffocation seemed like it would be an unpleasant ordeal. A gunshot to the head would be most preferable.

Eternity wasn't crowded. Seryna got them a table in the back corner and ordered drinks for both of them, surprisingly strong ones. Thane started to protest, but she shoved him away impishly.

"Come on, Thane, live a little," she teased, sliding delicately into her seat.

In the past, he might have cautioned her against using his name. Not today. "I suppose I have little choice in the matter."

_Though I've had quite enough to drink over the past month._

She laughed merrily. "Very true."

An asari server brought them their drinks, and Seryna sipped at hers eagerly. One sip of it was enough for Thane; every liquor-induced hangover he'd experienced in his time on Illium cautioned him against downing the contents of that glass.

"It'll be a shame once you're gone," said Seryna. "I've enjoyed having you around. It's nice to go out with someone that other people stare at more than me."

"Quite so," he replied. Being drell had its disadvantages – in a place like Nos Astra, his reptilian features inevitably attracted many eyes.

"Quite so what? The feeling is mutual, or you enjoy having people stare at you?"

"The former, of course," he answered smoothly, favoring her with a smile. He supposed he _would_ miss her, at that, despite their relatively short period of acquaintance. Seryna was very laid-back; easy-going. Fun to be around.

"I'll be gone, too, you know," she said. "In three days, it'll be 'goodbye Illium, hello Thessia.'"

_Ah, of course, _he thought. Her eagerness to help him had initially made him suspicious, but a growing familiarity with her personality combined with the knowledge of her impending emigration had assuaged his concerns. She simply had a grudge against Nassana and no fear of any reprisal.

"I can't wait," she continued, the expression on her face positively rapturous.

"A homecoming?" he asked, moderately curious.

"No, not really. I was born on Thessia, but I've lived here for most of my life."

"Illium doesn't suit you?"

She shrugged. "It's nice enough, if you don't mind paying for _everything_. But I hate my job. Slaving away for the transit authority isn't my idea of a good time."

"Aren't you a bit young to be returning to the homeworld?"

"It won't be for long. I'm staying with a friend for a few weeks, but from there, who knows? Earth, maybe? Humans are fun."

He smiled good-naturedly.

_To be young again._

"What about you?" she asked, cupping her chin in her hands and peering at him intently. "What's next on the great Thane Krios' agenda? Danger? Intrigue? More beautiful women?"

"I think not," he replied. "This is to be my last job."

"Ohh. Retiring, then?"

"In a sense."

"Big payday, huh?" she smiled conspiratorially.

"None at all, in fact. I have no client for this mission."

She stared in disbelief.

"It is… a personal matter," he told her. "An issue of morality."

"Your conscience is bothering you?"

"More a matter of restoring balance. Before I die, I would like to restore the balance of my life by doing good to counter my wickedness."

She snorted. "Finish your drink. Best cure for fatalism that I know of."

He smiled half-heartedly, feeling decidedly introspective now. Talking with her was natural and easy, but once awakened, his memories were difficult to suppress.

Thane was an assassin; a tool. He had been trained from early childhood to perform a certain function, that being the taking of lives. As that tool, he had served many masters, but those deaths he'd brought about as an extension of his clients were the work of his body. He knew he should feel no more guilt for them than the hammer feels for the nail, but… the memories. The gift and curse of his people. A great deal of violence resided in the annals of Thane's mind, lying dormant, perpetually awaiting his call. And not all of it could be explained away by philosophy.

"Thane? You still in there?"

He blinked. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"I said, I have to get back to work. If I get fired, I'll lose my last paycheck."

"That would be unfortunate," he agreed. "Allow me to walk you out."

"No. Finish your drink. I'm serious," she ordered.

"And Thane… If I don't see you again, I'm glad to have met you."

"Likewise. Take care of yourself."

She gave him one last smile and turned to go, leaving him to his memories and a drink that he had no intention of finishing. He supposed he would never see her again, and it made him a little sad.

_No need. There are always memories._

* * *

_Miranda_

There was no doubt about it: she felt a little guilty. For the first time since she'd begun the practice of reading Shepard's mail – a practice that at the time had seemed a perfectly pragmatic initiative – she actually felt a wee bit ashamed of herself. Well, maybe "ashamed" would be too strong a word. She felt… a little _unclean_. Especially considering the contents of this particular message: it was from Oriana, her little sister. Addressed to Shepard, but clearly written under the impression that Miranda would inevitably read it.

_Damn her. Now she's spoiled my cover,_ she thought, without any real venom or malice. She'd been smiling an awful lot over the past two days; the euphoria was slow in wearing off. Oriana had been everything she'd hoped for, and more. Happy, funny, and charming, her younger sister was everything Miranda herself was and many things that she was not. Still, there _was _the matter of guilt. Why now? She'd been reading his mail nearly every day for months now.

_Not that there's ever anything interesting in it_, she thought, smiling to herself. That was certainly true – the vast majority of Julian Shepard's mail was of the utterly useless variety. The man was practically a rock star, easily the most famous human in the galaxy, and no matter how he might try to keep his contact information private, word always seemed to have a way of getting out. Since his miraculous return from the dead, the outpouring of mail from the galaxy-at-large was an absolute torrent. He received fan mail of every imaginable variety, from the genuinely thoughtful to the downright creepy; myriad requests for guest speaking appearances, as if the man had been brought back from the dead in order to provide motivational material for schoolchildren; not to mention the idiotic endorsement requests from politicians, as if he had nothing better to do or any relevant opinions of his own. So, so many people. It was nigh unbelievable, not to mention more than a touch humbling.

_All the lives that he's touched, even in passing… I wonder if he even realizes the extent of it?_

The source of her newfound guilt was obvious enough: she and Shepard were closer now. It now seemed less a matter of gathering intelligence on a possible liability to Cerberus' cause than nosing about in someone else's business.

_Is he any less a liability now than before? _she mused, not unkindly. Shepard certainly did take issue with a great many of Cerberus' positions and policies, but he wasn't unreasonable. He was just… Shepard. Liking him seemed perfectly natural now, and she definitely trusted him. He'd risked his life for her, for _all _of them, countless times in these past months. And he'd rescued Oriana. She could never have saved her sister without his help, and she'd told him so.

Successfully rescuing Oriana had done wonders for Miranda's psyche. She felt renewed, _reborn_, once again able to find pleasure in her work. It was a tremendous relief to be able to direct all of her energy and focus to the mission without her sister's safety constantly hovering around in the back of her mind. Miranda had always worked well under pressure, had always been cool under fire, but the situation with Oriana had placed considerable strain on her mental and emotional toughness. Returning to business as usual was a glorious respite from the perpetual state of near-panic she'd endured over the past few days.

She closed her mail program, stretched, and hopped to her feet, deciding that she was hungry. It was almost noon; she liked having lunch with Mordin, as his midday meals usually proved much more tolerable to her senses than his breakfast, but he never seemed to show up reliably at any particular time. He wasn't there now, either – the mess hall was empty, save four of the boys. Shepard was eating his lunch, a sandwich of some kind, while the other three – Garrus, Jacob, and Zaeed – loitered about around him. That was not unusual; Shepard always picked slowly at his food and never seemed to finish eating.

"So do _you _find asari attractive?" Jacob was asking.

Garrus shrugged. "Doesn't everyone?"

"Best piece of ass I ever had was an asari," Zaeed chipped in. He was eating too, Miranda observed, gnawing on a slab of disgusting-looking beef jerky. It smelled terrible.

"The consort on the Presidium had a _huge _thing for Shepard," said Garrus.

"Sha'ira? That consort?" Jacob inquired, eyebrows raised.

"The very same," Garrus nodded.

"No, she didn't," Shepard protested.

"I was there," Garrus continued, addressing Jacob. "He helped her clear up some kind of problem with an elcor diplomat… what was it? Blackmail? Anyway, she was practically throwing herself at him. It was embarrassing."

"Damn," said Jacob, clearly impressed. He was looking at Shepard almost as if he'd never seen him before.

Shepard waved his hands in a dismissive gesture. "He's exaggerating."

"It _was_ embarrassing," Garrus insisted, clearly enjoying himself. "I mean, seriously. Shepard? Look at him. It's no surprise that things cooled off between them after I entered the equation."

Jacob snorted derisively.

"I shagged Sha'ira," Zaeed said suddenly, through a mouthful of jerky.

_Oh, how lovely,_ Miranda thought with disgust. That was a mental picture she could easily have done without.

"Bet you paid an arm and a leg," said Jacob.

"Not far off," laughed Zaeed. "I was a mite younger in those days. Seemed a worthwhile use of money, then."

"Was it?" asked Garrus.

"Time, yes. Money, no," the merc replied. "Asari hookers are a dime a dozen in places like Omega. Like I said, best piece of ass I ever had was an asari."

Miranda cleared her throat loudly. Four heads turned toward her almost as one; all but Zaeed at least had the decency to look a little abashed.

"Hello, Ms. Lawson," said Garrus, his tone amiable and charming.

"I'm almost done tweaking the combat scanner on your Viper," said Jacob, nudging Garrus with his elbow and pointedly not looking in Miranda's direction. "Come take a look and see what you think."

Garrus nodded. "Sounds good."

The room cleared rather quickly, with Zaeed and his jerky disappearing into the crew quarters with nary a sound. She found herself left alone with Shepard and his half-eaten lunch.

He offered her half of his turkey sandwich. "Hungry?"

She accepted it and took a seat across from him. "What's this about a Cerberus facility on Pragia?"

"Jack's got some personal demons she wants to exorcise," he replied, taking a sip of water. "Supposedly it's abandoned. She says she grew up there and wants to go back."

She felt her brow furrow almost unconsciously. "And you… agreed to assist in this?"

He smiled at her, a touch disbelievingly. "Do you really want to talk about Jack?"

She smiled back. "No. I don't. Finished with your lunch, Commander?"

He followed her back to her office and took a seat on the couch. She wandered over to the window, momentarily captivated by the view of the stars outside. Supposedly, Shepard's friend Liara T'Soni was currently engrossed in ferreting out the whereabouts of Thane Krios and the Justicar Samara, and Shepard had decided to leave her to it. The Normandy now drifted aimlessly, just outside of Illium's orbit. The downtime was welcome – Shepard pressed his crew hard, but he was never excessive.

"Heard anything more from your sister?"

He stared her down, wearing a knowing and condescending grin. She kept a straight face, though not without effort. "Not since we talked. I'm not sure how we'll correspond, if at all. I don't want my existence to complicate her life."

"She's a very pretty girl," he said, a little half-smile on his face. "But you're prettier."

She cocked her head inquisitively. "Are you flirting with me, Commander?"

"Maybe."

She felt her cheeks begin to flush, which was _highly _unusual. "Well, I know that I'm attractive. You'll have to do better than that. Mine and Oriana's looks are some of the best money can buy, after all."

His smile faded. "It always comes back to this, doesn't it? Why does everything have to be about your father?"

She shrugged. "I can't change who I am, Shepard."

"And you shouldn't have to. You are who you are, Miranda. Just because your father had a hand in it doesn't mean you can't own it. Look at Grunt. He's genetically engineered to be the perfect krogan and he apparently can't operate a toilet without help."

She suppressed a giggle. His ability to make her laugh was very nearly irritating, at times. "I imagine there's a story behind that."

"Ask Rupert if you want details. But you don't. Stop changing the subject. I was making a point."

She arched an eyebrow at him, favoring him with a bemused smile. "Yes. If I recall correctly, you were trying to flatter me out of my uniform."

He leaned back and crossed his arms. "And you were dwelling on the fact that your father 'purchased' your physical attractiveness. You know, I thought you were beautiful from the moment I met you, but I didn't like you."

"That's a very sweet back-handed compliment," she replied sardonically. Miranda had always been plagued by issues surrounding her genetic alteration, issues that never seemed to go away. If anything, Shepard's presence had made those issues worse in the beginning, what with his overwhelming natural talents, his leadership skills that dwarfed her own, his ability to dominate a room with his presence simply by entering it. She envied him, and that envy had provided fuel for her own feelings of inadequacy, but it was somewhat difficult to feel inadequate while serving as the focus of Julian Shepard's unabashed admiration.

He stood up, crossing his arms. "You're difficult to compliment. You refuse to own anything but your mistakes. Like I said, I didn't like you when we first met, but I do now. Very much. And genetics has nothing to do with it. Am I not allowed to admire your body, your mind, or your dedication, just because of your genes?"

She smiled at him, very conscious of his eyes on her. Alone with him in this small room, the sexual tension between them was very nearly intoxicating. An unusual and formidable man, was Julian Shepard. Savior of the Citadel, first human Spectre, most famous human in the galaxy… yet absent-minded enough to reliably, at least once a week, come to breakfast with his shirt on inside-out. He was charming, and fun, and it had been years since she'd felt this sort of genuine warmth toward another person.

"You admire my body often, do you?" she asked teasingly.

He smiled back at her, a slow, sensual smile. Very charming, that smile. "I'm doing it right now."

She met his eyes, light brown, almost golden, taking in his sharp, severe face softened by that disarming smile, her eyes roaming over his lean and muscular form… Her attraction to him was abruptly very present and tangible. And quite strong.

_I am Cerberus' second-in-command. This man is my _charge_! I'm supposed to be _monitoring_ him, not..._

Instead, she found herself taking a couple steps toward him, clasping her hands behind her back. Modeling herself for him. "That's quite brazen of you, Commander… But I suppose I can live with it…"

They met in the center of the room. Her hands found his shoulders, rested gently against his neck. She felt his pulse quicken at her touch, felt a thrill rush through her at the obvious and tangible way she was affecting him. His hands, both gentle and firm, came to rest on the small of her back, and she'd never before felt such energy, such electricity, from such simple physical contact. They were hardened warriors, the pair of them, both smooth and confident in the face of danger, yet both of them were trembling with exhiliration. He leaned into her slowly, and her eyes fluttered shut, her lips parting slightly in anticipation. It was strange, incredibly unexpected, but she wanted this, wanted _him_ –

"Commander, a message is coming in from Liara T'Soni. She would like to speak with you."

EDI's harsh, intrusive voice startled them both badly. She recoiled from him, absurdly uncertain of what to do with her hands.

"Fine," said Shepard shakily, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "I'll be up in a moment."

Miranda sighed. _Thanks for that, EDI._

"I can't help but feel like that was intentional," said Shepard pointedly.

That idea hadn't even occurred to her. _Was she… _watching _us?_

She fidgeted. "I should… get back to…"

Shepard raised his hands in front of her in a halting gesture. "… Don't move."

She laughed in spite of herself, taking a seat in the chair by the window, watching him go as she attempted to gather herself. Going back to work after _that… _well, she needed a moment, if only to catch her breath.

_Well… that was… interesting._

Interesting was hardly the word. What happened to looking before leaping? Sexual impulsivity was utterly unlike her. What had she been thinking? This mission was far too important to allow personal feelings to complicate things.

Interesting or not, that little exchange forced her to confront a possibility that had been nagging her for days now. Not so much a possibility as a certainty, really; it was undeniable that she, Miranda Lawson, had managed to develop some rather strong feelings for the subject of the Lazarus Project.

She laughed again. That sounded ridiculous. But it was true. Whatever happened from here, whatever developed further, if anything, between Shepard and herself, the feelings were there. They'd been slow in growing, but steady and unrelenting. He was a very intriguing man, a strange combination of compassion, violence, playfulness and severity. She'd never met anyone like him before.

_Throwing yourself at him that way. What's gotten into you?_

It _had _been thrilling, watching him, the way his eyes drank her in with obvious desire. Men had been watching her, _wanting _her, all her life. She'd learned to ignore it, or to occasionally use it to her advantage, but in that moment, feeling his pulse accelerate beneath her fingers, she'd experienced no coherent thought beyond the desire to leap into his arms and ravish him.

_Surely there are no cameras in _my _room. If I thought for one minute that that sneaky, devious AI was spying on us…_

_Yes, because reading someone else's mail is completely acceptable, but synthetic voyeurism would be crossing the line._

"Buckle up, everyone, we're heading back to Illium," Joker called over the intercom.

_I suppose that means Liara found something._

Miranda sighed again, heavily. So much for intimacy.

_Maybe he'll come back._

She grinned. Probably not. But she hoped he would, eventually. Maybe the mission _was_ too important, but she hoped it, all the same.

Suddenly a shrill shout erupted from the mess hall just outside her door.

"Zaeed! You geriatric Cockney sack of SHIT! Where's my beef jerky!"

It was Jack.

_It's in his stomach, _she thought, both amused and astonished. _Of all the things in the galaxy to cause controversy..._

"You dirty FUCK –

She trailed off, heading out of Miranda's earshot.

_Did I hear that? No, I most certainly did not hear anything. I was in here the entire time._


	14. Pray for the Wicked

_Author's Note__: This chapter has been updated as of 4/11/12 to reflect the events of one of the Mass Effect comics. If you are unfamiliar with this, fear not: it will not affect your reading experience here. :)_

* * *

14 – _Pray for the Wicked_

_Miranda_

It made sense, of course. Thane Krios was an assassin, one of the most skilled to be found anywhere. Finding him would be nigh impossible without knowing where to look, and Nassana Dantius' penthouse was the one place they could be sure of meeting him. It made sense, yes, but she didn't have to like it. Going on a mission to interrupt one of the galaxy's most dangerous killers in the middle of a job seemed to Miranda like a very good way to get killed, and not being a part of the team herself, she couldn't help feeling nervous for Shepard and the others. She trusted him, but she didn't like not being there, didn't like having this uncomfortable feeling that the situation was out of her control. An impractical notion, perhaps, considering how little control she'd actually been able to exercise over Shepard since the formation of the Lazarus Cell, but knowing him, knowing his tendencies, it was impossible _not_ to feel a bit anxious. Especially considering the team he had taken with him.

_Garrus, Jack, and Zaeed… If I didn't know better, I'd say he left the most reasonable of us behind on purpose_, she mused irritably, impatiently re-crossing her legs for perhaps the fifth time since taking a seat in the lobby. Liara T'Soni had practically dropped _everything_ to meet with Shepard, but apparently Miranda Lawson did not warrant such urgency. No, that was a little unkind, and probably untrue. Liara had been very kind and accommodating, willing to do almost anything for them.

_And we've really only been here ten minutes, _she reminded herself. Patience had never been one of her strong suits, even less so in stressful situations. Jacob and Kasumi seemed to be having an easier time of it.

"It's part of being military," Jacob was saying. "Once you live that life, it becomes a part of you. At least, it did for me." He paused, tilting his head curiously. "Are you hitting on me?"

Kasumi smiled up at him demurely. The two of them were seated on a bench across the room from Miranda. Sitting rather closely together, Miranda observed.

"Am I that bad, that you have to come right out and ask me?" Kasumi lamented, crossing her arms in mock frustration.

"No," Jacob grinned. "I'm just surprised, that's all."

"Why? Surprised I haven't gone after our Commander? Maybe I would have, but something tells me he's been taken off the table." She glanced at Miranda briefly, offering her a conspiratorial smile that she did not return. For her part, Miranda was suddenly very interested in the floral arrangement on the small end table to her right. It wasn't difficult to feign indifference; the lobby _was_ worthy of note, very plush and elaborately furnished in a decadent asari style. Besides, Kasumi was irritatingly perceptive sometimes, and Miranda had no wish to be drawn into this sort of conversation, especially with Jacob present.

There had been something, once, between Jacob and herself. Well, more the beginning of a relationship than one in earnest, a hint of closeness that had ended almost as quickly as it began. It was human nature, being drawn to a member of the opposite sex in the midst of a dangerous or extreme situation, and that episode of bioterrorism had easily met both criteria.

_Jacob doesn't know what he wants. I'm certainly not it, _she reflected. Normally she wasn't much taken with such things, but the flowers _were _lovely. Like oversized sunflowers, with long, wispy petals in radiant reds, blues, and greens, they were almost fireworks in still-life. Beautiful things. And very alien; certainly Earth had never seen their like.

_What's happening to me? _she thought with an odd mixture of consternation and amusement. Here she was, on the most critical mission of her entire career, one with dire ramifications not only for humanity but for the entire galaxy, and she sat about idly considering relationships and pretty flowers.

_Maybe I _have _changed, _she considered. Jacob had been turned off by her severity, in part, but also by her extreme dedication. Where was that dedication now? Certainly not gone. But with Jacob, things had always been somewhat tense, whereas Shepard just had this way about him…

_Maybe if your mind weren't so full of _him _all the time._

She suppressed a grin, whimsically entertaining an image of herself on hands and knees, pleading with the Illusive Man. Reassign me! Please! Send me anywhere! Get me away from Shepard, he's taking over my life! Maybe he would even agree; it was doubtful that the Illusive Man would approve of the rapidly-escalating romantic entanglement between his top lieutenant and his single greatest investment, a man who also seemed determined to subvert his interests at every turn. But they weren't so different, really, Shepard and her boss. Were they?

Shepard certainly 'drew the line' in a different place, so to speak. The ends justified the means far less often under Julian Shepard's command, but he wasn't nearly as naïve or foolishly idealistic as Miranda had initially believed. He was capable of making hard decisions. But he lacked the quintessential Cerberus mentality, that 'us against the galaxy' mindset that separated Cerberus' best operatives from the rank and file. In a way, Shepard was like Yeoman Chambers: he loved everyone. His two best friends were aliens, a turian and a quarian. Perhaps he didn't share the Illusive Man's human-centric agenda, but Shepard was no less an advocate for the human race. He was an advocate for the entire galaxy, for every race that the Reapers threatened. He just… did his job. And in his way, he was charismatic.

_And charming, and funny, and sexy, blah blah blah, get over yourself. You have a job to do, _she thought, a bit chagrined_. _Her emotions made quite the tangle this evening, a tight bundle of anxiety and fear enmeshed with excitement and exhilaration, all topped off with a dash of whimsical, self-indulgent daydreaming. Perhaps a weaker woman would have been in a panic, but Miranda thrived on thrills. It was just another day at the office, in a sense. Well, aside from the added distraction of this extracurricular relationship she'd managed to get herself into.

_Maybe I really _should _ask to be reassigned._

"Ms. Lawson? Liara is ready for you now."

Liara's assistant, Nyxeris, had a low, velvety voice that made even her most innocuous statements sound suggestive. Likely, it was by design – Dr. Liara T'Soni had become an information broker on Illium, a profession about as deep in intrigue and subterfuge as Miranda could imagine.

_Everybody has an angle. What's hers, I wonder? An extension of Liara's, or one of her own? _

Jacob and Kasumi followed her into Liara's office. It wasn't particularly large, but it was brightly lit by the late-afternoon light, with large windows overlooking the bustling market plaza below. The furnishings were at once bold and simplistic, very chic and empowering. She internally bumped her opinion of Liara up a notch; it was easy to see how she'd done well for herself here. Anyone who met with Liara here most assuredly did so on _her _terms.

Liara looked up from her work as her office door opened to admit them. She met Miranda's gaze, but did not smile.

"Ms. Lawson," Liara offered politely. "It is good to see you again."

"And you, Dr. T'Soni," Miranda replied.

"Please, call me Liara. Mr. Taylor, Ms. Goto," Liara continued. "Thank you for coming. I apologize for the necessity of this visit, but Shepard indicated to me that this information would be extremely valuable to your cause, and procuring it has required more time than I would have anticipated. Again, I apologize. There have been… distractions."

"That's unsurprising," said Kasumi. "This is Illium, after all."

Liara smiled knowingly. "Yes. This is Illium. But to the point; I will not keep you long. I have managed to learn that the Justicar Samara is registered with Tracking Officer Dara. She works with the law enforcement department here on Nos Astra; you should be able to find her in the transportation hub, not far from here."

"Tracking officer?" Jacob asked, curious.

"A standard practice," said Liara. "The Justicar's presence in Nos Astra has caused a great deal of anxiety within the police force. The tracking officer's responsibility is to keep track of Samara's movements in the interest of preventing – or, in the worst case, containing – an inter-species incident."

"So they keep tabs on her like she's a criminal," Jacob mused. "Guess they don't want her deciding some turian needs to die and causing friction with the Hierarchy."

"That is it precisely, Mr. Taylor," Liara smiled at him graciously. "I do not know how much you know about them, but it is quite rare for a Justicar to venture outside of asari space. I cannot guess her reasons for coming here, but I suspect the authorities are quite eager for her to be elsewhere. Justicars are held in reverence by my people, but their methods can be unforgiving, and we cannot expect other species to respect their authority."

_Sounds like we'll at least have the support of the local law enforcement._ _Anything to get her off world._

"Thank you for the help, Liara," said Miranda. "I'm sure Shepard will want to see you again before we leave, assuming all goes well."

"I hope so," Liara agreed. "On both counts."

_I'd have thought he would have radioed by now. Surely they're on the way?_

On the way to the Dantius Towers; into the heart of the storm. Four soldiers, armed only with firearms, kinetic barriers, and a lion's share of guts and determination. How would Shepard decide to tackle this particular dilemma? 'Break down the front door,' in all likelihood. Hopefully Garrus would veto anything too ridiculous.

_You'd better not get yourself killed, you bloody idiot. Be careful, for once in your life._

"I'll try to get Garrus on the radio," said Jacob. "See if they're set. There might be something we can do to help out."

"Right behind you," Kasumi chirped.

"I had heard of Kasumi Goto," said Liara, as the door closed behind them. "I actually thought Cerberus had a bounty on her, at one time or another."

"Strange times make for strange bedfellows," Miranda replied. The inevitable connection that interesting choice of words led to in her mind nearly made her blush. Thankfully, the asari didn't notice.

Liara had begun pacing, slowly walking the same stretch of floor between her desk and the window. She stopped now, however, meeting Miranda's eyes with an earnest gaze.

"How is he?"

"No doubt the same as you remember," Miranda replied. "You did the right thing."

Liara frowned and looked away. She had become better at guarding her emotions than Miranda recalled, but the young asari would never be an expert in that regard. In Liara's case, though, perhaps passion could be counted as a strength rather than a liability. Without that passion, Julian Shepard would likely have fallen into Collector hands.

Miranda and Liara had met before, several times, after the first Normandy was destroyed. Liara, with Miranda's help, had managed to recover Shepard's body from the Shadow Broker, who had made a deal with the Collectors. Miranda's impression of her then had pegged Liara as a tough woman, perhaps a touch too emotional, but capable and driven. Her time on Illium had obviously hardened her to a degree – her success in such a dangerous trade on such a cutthroat world spoke to that, not to mention the relative coolness of her demeanor. She looked older now, since Miranda had last seen her.

"He seems to believe that the Illusive Man's concerns are genuine," said Liara.

"Shepard doesn't trust anyone in Cerberus."

"You didn't tell him that I was the one who..."

She trailed off. It was obvious what she meant.

"No," Miranda said gently.

The asari favored her with a slight smile. "You've changed, Ms. Lawson."

"So have you," Miranda replied.

There _was _something different in their relationship now, and the meaning behind it had escaped Miranda until this moment – they shared something now. Shepard had transformed from an object she'd been tasked to retrieve for her boss into...

_The object of your affection?_

_I'm still Cerberus._

_True, but you _have _changed. Even Liara can see it._

"Take care of him, Ms. Lawson."

She met Liara's eyes. Maybe she and the asari had more in common than she'd realized.

Miranda smiled wryly. "He's crazy. Someone has to."

* * *

_Shepard_

"Get the fuck off me, Zaeed," Jack snapped.

"Piss off," Zaeed replied distractedly. His rifle was in three pieces on his lap; for some reason, he'd decided the back seat of the shuttle was the best place to try and clean it, and his roaming elbows were fast becoming a source of controversy. Garrus was pressed into the opposite corner, warily watching the two of them as if observing wild and dangerous animals in their natural habitat.

"Touch me one more time and you'll be pissing through a tube," Jack snarled.

Zaeed responded to this threat by deliberately planting an elbow squarely into her right breast. Alarmed, Shepard nearly leapt into the back to try and force himself between them, but shockingly, there was no need. Jack swatted the stock of Zaeed's rifle from his lap and attempted to land a punch between his legs, but by this time both of them were sniggering.

Garrus relaxed, if only slightly. Shepard didn't blame him; if Zaeed could manage to be fully at ease in Jack's company, he was the only one.

"If you two don't settle down, we might crash," said Seryna. "I thought you said these were trained soldiers, Shepard?"

"They are," Shepard replied. "Trained soldiers."

"Behaving like adults is another matter entirely," said Garrus.

"Fuck you," said Jack. Zaeed went back to his rifle maintenance.

It felt a little strange, riding in a civilian vehicle in full battle regalia. This whole mission felt strange, for that matter. Recruiting an assassin in the middle of a job was probably a little unorthodox. How receptive would he even be to Shepard's offer? From Seryna's description, Thane Krios was a likable man, but that in itself meant little. Saren Arterius had been charismatic, too.

"So I have your word, right?"

He glanced over at Seryna questioningly.

"You're here to help him. Not to kill him."

"I did tell you," Shepard reiterated. "I'm just here to make sure he survives."

The asari nodded. "So you said. I just like Thane, is all."

"And Nassana?"

"She's an evil bitch who deserves every bit of what's coming to her," Seryna answered. With emphasis.

Shepard had met Nassana Dantius on the Citadel. She'd tried to coerce him into doing some work for her, though he had graciously declined. As if they hadn't had enough going on.

_Apparently she hasn't made many friends._

Jacob had expressed trepidation toward working with an assassin, and Shepard could empathize with his position, to a certain extent. Thane's job was to take lives, but they were all killers. No way to get around it. Shepard had taken countless lives in his career as a soldier, as a Spectre; he was a natural soldier. Fighting was his calling, but he had never really been at peace with killing other people, no matter the circumstances.

He had a recurring nightmare, a dream that frequently invaded his consciousness, sometimes even pressing into his waking life. In the dream, he stood before a massive mirror, looking into the eyes of his reflection. At first, his was the only image in the glass, but gradually others would appear, the shapes of all the men and women he had killed. Ethereal and incorporeal, they would gather around his image, touching it, caressing it, beckoning him… waiting for him. The images existed only in the mirror; he always knew that, and he wanted nothing more than to turn and run, to get away, but there was no going back. The only direction was forward, until one day, inevitably, he would pass through the glass. Into the mirror; into whatever lay beyond.

Julian Shepard was a natural-born killer, but he was not, had never been, at peace with his gift. Maybe Thane wasn't, either. Seryna had mentioned something about the assassin's desire to 'restore the balance of his life.' Guilty conscience, maybe? It didn't matter; Shepard wasn't in the business of judging people. His own moral foundation was a little shaky, in all honesty. He knew what felt right to him and what felt wrong, but in his experience there was never a clear-cut answer to any moral dilemma. After he'd lost his family, he'd been raised by committee in a military school, and the most important thing he'd learned there was the importance of thinking for himself. Everybody had their own morals, their own ideas of how to solve the galaxy's problems, most with at least some basis in logic and reality, but Shepard resented the instructors' constant efforts to _mold _him, to shape him into their visions of an effective soldier and human being. He'd often struggled against cynicism as a teenager; after all, of what significance is one orphan trainee marine in this vast sea of life, human and otherwise? Why even be a soldier at all? What's the point in caring about anyone but yourself?

In the end, it was still hard to explain how or why, but he _did _care. Enough to keep going, anyway. He possessed an affinity for battle, a near-addiction to adrenaline, that sustained him in addition to his belief in the worthiness of his goal. The Collector problem, and by extension the Reaper threat… those were real, and they were his responsibility. And if Thane Krios could offer help, Shepard would accept it gladly.

_Assuming we can get to him without being torn apart by Nassana's guards. And assuming Thane doesn't decide to shoot us, himself._

Illium really was beautiful. Mordin had the right of it: the buildings looked like giant, radiant insect hives, buzzing with the hidden schemes and machinations of all the powerful asari queens of Nos Astra high society.

_Liara's down there now, _he thought, grinning to himself. Liara T'Soni, now one of those mighty monarchs in her own right. Liara had always been both smart and tough, but picturing her as a smooth and savvy information broker wasn't easy, even after going to see her. Wheeling and dealing with Illium's high and mighty seemed a far cry from studying ancient Prothean technology on remote worlds, but she'd apparently done quite well for herself. She did seem a little distracted, but seeing her had been… nice. It was good to know that she was okay.

_Is she? In a place like this?_

Miranda would be with her, now… and he forced himself to derail that train of thought immediately. The _last _thing he needed right now was to start thinking about Miranda Lawson. Enough daydreaming for one mission.

"Shepard?" said Jacob's voice, right on cue.

"Go ahead."

"We've got a lead on the Justicar. Heading over to the transport hub to check it out. Everything good on your end?"

Through the shuttle's tinted windshield, the Dantius Towers loomed just ahead.

"We're about to touch down. No trouble yet, but there will be soon. We'll keep you posted."

"Same here. Be careful, Commander. Jacob out."

"Hold on," said Seryna, beginning their descent. "This could be a bit bumpy."

* * *

_Thane_

He looked into her eyes as he pulled the trigger. He always did, when he could. The finality of that muted _bang_, the look of terrified disbelief that so often colored his targets' last moments… it was bittersweet. And horrible. She gasped, moaned, trembled in his arms. Then, she lay still.

There was beauty in death; he had always thought it so. A terrible sublimity, like the cold bite of a sharp blade. An aching, empty sort of beauty, like a grieving lover's anguished lament.

Thane took a deep breath and bowed his head, folding his hands before him in prayer.

_Shepherd this troubled soul, goddess, and guide me on my path. Smile kindly on this sinful soul, goddess, and enfold me in your sheltering embrace._

_Await this vagrant soul, goddess, for soon I shall join you in the deep._

_Soon, I shall seek the comfort of your halls._

"He can certainly make an entrance," quipped a sharp voice in a flanging turian accent.

"Thane Krios?"

He recognized the owner of the voice. A male human, clad in midnight-black armor adorned with stripes and patches of dark green, spattered liberally with blood. The leader. There were three others with him, a turian and two more humans, one female. An odd bunch, but very effective. He had monitored their progress with curiosity.

"I apologize. But prayers for the wicked must not be forsaken."

"Do you really think she deserves it?" asked the turian.

"Not for her," he explained calmly. "For me."

Thane opened his eyes. He clasped his hands behind his back and straightened his back, regarding the group impassively.

"The measure of an individual can be difficult to discern from actions alone. Take you, for instance. All this destruction; chaos…"

He took a pair of measured steps toward them. The female human trained her shotgun on him, but he ignored her.

"I was curious to see how far you'd go to find me," he concluded. "Well… here I am."

"I suppose we served as a valuable distraction," said the leader.

"Indeed," Thane almost sighed. Had it been too much to hope for death in battle? It was almost comical. He had gone to great lengths to stoke Nassana's paranoia, deviating markedly from his standard method of operation, heedless of the risk of being detected, only to have a squad of elite commandos appear on the scene, slaughtering every mercenary unfortunate enough to cross their path. Reaching Nassana in that environment had been a job fit for a child. His life had never been in any real danger. Were he a man with less governance of himself, he would have been angry. As it was, he felt simply… resigned.

"I'm Julian Shepard," said the leader. "This is Garrus Vakarian, Zaeed Massani… and Jack."

Shepard… He had heard the name. The hero of the Citadel, by most accounts. A living legend; myth made flesh. Rumor had killed Shepard a thousand times over, yet here he stood, very much alive.

_Seeking something of me._

"And what is it that you wish of me, Shepard?"

"Are you familiar with the Collectors?" Shepard asked.

"By reputation," he answered. He turned to face the windows; the sun was pleasantly warm on his skin, a bright orange globe resting heavily on the horizon.

Shepard continued. "For some reason, they've started conducting abductions of human colonies on a massive scale. Hundreds of thousands of people have been taken."

"I see," he replied noncommittally. The Collectors, a mysterious people lurking beyond an unmapped relay. Abductions? What use could they possibly have for a hundred thousand samples of the human genome?

_Alive, no less? Strange._

"Cerberus is funding a mission to investigate and stop the abductions. I'm forming a team, and we're going after them. That's the long and short of it. I could make great use of your skills."

"Attacking the Collectors would require passing through the Omega-4 relay," Thane replied, turning to meet Shepard's eyes. His gaze was unfaltering; resolute. Humans had always intrigued him, their facial expressions in particular. Reading a human's face had at first seemed much easier than attempting the same with a fellow drell – human faces, at a glance, looked much more open and were undoubtedly much more expressive. But he had been wrong in his assessments enough times to have realized that even the most animated faces concealed many mysteries; in that sense, drell and humans were much alike.

"No ship has ever returned from doing so."

"That's true," Shepard agreed.

_So we are alike in this, as well, _Thane mused. Or similar, at the least. Shepard and his crew did not fear death, that much was evident, but perhaps they did not actively court it, as he did.

"This was to be my last job," Thane sighed, turning back to the horizon. Quite the view. "I'm dying. Low survival odds do not concern me. The abduction of your colonists does."

_Perhaps there is a reason for all of this, _he thought. A much more comforting thought than believing this whole episode to be a bizarre coincidence. What was Nassana's empire next to the abduction of an entire colony? Multiple colonies?_  
_

"I hadn't heard that," Shepard said. "You're sick? Is there anything I can do?"

"Giving me this opportunity is enough," he responded. It was a worthy mission, an admirable goal. "The universe is a dark place. I'm trying to make it brighter before I die."

He broke his gaze away from the windows, turning to face his strange new companions. The other three still watched him warily, but Shepard seemed relatively at ease. His expression seemed… understanding? Empathic? Perhaps.

"Many innocents died today," Thane continued, almost to himself. "I was not fast enough, and they suffered. I must atone for that."

_For their deaths, and for many others._

"Quite a few salarians survived," said Garrus, the turian. He wore a sniper's targeting visor over his left eye. "The workers, I mean."

Thane nodded absently. A very unexpected turn of events. He had fully expected to be killed tonight, but then, passing through the Omega-4 relay would be as likely to bring about his end. Working with a group would be interesting, as well. He had no comparable experiences at all.

_Perhaps it's fate… maybe this is meant to be._

Shepard extended a hand. Thane shook it.

"I will work for you, Shepard. No charge."

* * *

Author's Notes: _I apologize both for the long wait for this chapter and for the extended use of in-game dialogue. For the former, I would say that the next chapter is unlikely to take so long. I'm working on my other story, "Ghost," alternately with this one, but that long layoff is an anomaly, I promise. _

_For the latter, it seems inevitable for first meetings; I didn't want to completely blow up the original scene, but I thought it was interesting to get something of Thane's perspective on things. I want to keep things mostly original, though, as I find that both more fun to write and more fun to read._

_As always, let me know what you think! I'm happy to hear from everyone who's reading, and I fervently appreciate your interest. =)_


	15. Shades of Grey

Note: _This chapter is rated "AAA" for "All Alien Action"! …haha, just kidding. But seriously._

_Also: Slashes (/ … /) are indicative of Thane's solipses, to prevent any confusion._

* * *

15 –_ Shades of Grey_

_Garrus_

He had to admire the drell's choice in weaponry – Thane's Viper was an older model, extensively modified and apparently much-used, bearing intermittent signs of wear and tear much like a child's favorite toy. Human-made, the Viper, very accurate and with minimal recoil. Excellent both for neutralizing kinetic barriers and for dispatching unshielded targets. An assassin's weapon.

Shepard peeked his head into the armory from the CIC. "You guys ready to go?"

"At your leisure, Commander," Thane replied smoothly, turning from his work to address Shepard directly.

"Where are we going?" asked Garrus.

"Don't know," Shepard replied. "Miranda's meeting with the Justicar's tracking officer. We'll probably head out when she calls back."

"Fair enough," Garrus answered. "Ready when you are, Shepard."

Shepard nodded and disappeared. Thane immediately turned back to the workbench.

Garrus had only ever encountered a few drell in his life aside from the Normandy's newest addition. A client race of the hanar, in a sense. Maybe the relationship between drell and hanar resembled that between the turians and their client volus. It was definitely possible, but in his experience, the drell were an unusual people, not much like the volus or any other species, for that matter. He knew that most of them were content to live on Kahje, and those that did not were wanderers, wayfarers adrift in galactic society without a real home or culture to call their own. No two such drell were ever much alike; they tended to adopt other cultures for their own, living wherever they so chose, among whomever they most identified with.

It was a little bleak, honestly. The culture of Palaven was monolithic and overpowering; growing up, Garrus had often felt oppressed by the weight of turian society, what with all the tiers of citizenship, all the talk of expectations and responsibility. What would it be like to be a drell, to be completely free of _any _cultural or societal obligation? By all accounts, Rakhana was a desolate, post-apocalyptic wasteland, after all. Thane certainly didn't owe anything to his race's home world; he probably felt no connection to it at all.

_Would it be liberating? Or just… empty?_

Maybe turian ways were confining, but it was nice to at least have something to rail against, even something to identify with and fall back on – a place, a society, to call home. Races like the drell and the krogan seemed almost rudderless. Over the past few years, he had distanced himself enough from (_my father_) his home to know that feeling. Archangel had been turian only in name.

"You did impressive work in the tower," said Garrus, breaking the silence.

Thane shifted his position slowly to face him, clasping his hands behind his back. "Indeed?"

"Protecting the workers, I mean," he explained. "I don't think I've ever met an assassin who would've gone to all that trouble."

"I have no wish to be the cause of undue pain and suffering."

"Just the due kind, right?" Garrus replied in a dry tone.

Thane shook his head and blinked his strange eyes, shrouded by their murkily translucent second lids. "Perhaps I misspoke. Pain and suffering do not interest me in any form."

"So you don't take pleasure in your work?"

"What transpired on Illium was entirely of my making; I had no client, as I mentioned," the drell answered. His low, rasping voice never wavered; it was almost machine-like, completely bereft of emotion. Talking with him wasn't easy. "Pleasure… no. Pleasure was not my aim."

"You said you were trying to make the universe brighter."

"Indeed."

"I can relate to that," Garrus nodded. After all, what was his team on Omega if not a very selective group of assassins? Nassana Dantius had been a ruthless woman with few redeeming qualities, someone who'd brought a great deal of suffering to a great many people. Certainly a more worthy target than (_Sidonis_) most.

_Trying to make a difference the only way he knows how… I can respect that._

The slightest hint of a smile appeared on Thane's lips. "A friend of mine found my methodology curious – choosing to kill for the sake of the common good."

"Unusual, you mean? For an assassin?"

The smile now surfaced in earnest, if a bit self-deprecating and distant. "My thoughts precisely."

All of the drell Garrus had ever known were difficult to associate with a species at-large, and Thane Krios seemed to fit that characterization aptly. Like the volus? Not Thane. He was quietly confident, unabashedly an individual. And there was the marked distinction of being more than three feet tall and not shaped like a stubby, malformed balloon. Of course. But that was being unkind.

_Why did you decide to come with us? _was a question Garrus entertained but did not give voice to. Maybe Thane would give the same answer he'd given just now: for the sake of doing good, of _restoring balance_. The drell seemed like a spiritual man, where Garrus most assuredly was not. A religious turian was an annoying turian, in his experience. All that talk of 'spirits' and 'guidance'… The worst were the ones who'd adapted the humans' Zen Buddhism. There had been a group of them living in a monastery near his childhood home on Palaven, always meditating and chanting and tending to strange 'gardens' that looked to Garrus like nothing but piles of rocks. Maybe the turians had lost something in translation, but it seemed to him just like a religious excuse for being lazy.

_Caeus, that was the leader's name, _he recalled. Nothing he'd said had ever made much sense to Garrus; all about some human who'd spent two months sitting under a tree, or something? This 'Buddha' must have been much more impressive than Caeus Arand, with his annoying, nasal voice and comical self-righteousness. He'd been a bare-face, probably to his tribe's immense relief.

_Who are you to judge others?_ said Gidion Vakarian's harsh, disdainful voice. _Learn your own place before you seek to dictate those of your fellows._

_Those aren't _my_ fellows_, a young Garrus had replied cheekily, earning him a cuff on the back of the head. It wasn't an unpleasant memory, not now. He _had _been a handful for his father.

But as for religion… No amount of praying had ever saved him any measure of difficulty, not in _his_ recollection. Prayers certainly didn't stop bullets. Not that he would voice such a sentiment to a man like Thane Krios. Honestly, if it worked for Thane, maybe it was worth looking into.

_It's just the guilt, probably. Lots of people turn to religion to help deal with guilt._

Maybe he would have, himself. If he could have. But it wasn't that easy for him, and it most likely wasn't easy for Thane, either. Nobody survives for so long as an assassin without either being a complete sociopath or feeling a great deal of heavy, heavy responsibility. And if Thane was a sociopath, he was also a good actor.

What he'd gone through with his squad and with Sidonis might have made religion tempting to someone else, but for Garrus, and for any turian, really, accountability wasn't something that could be assuaged or mitigated by spiritual principles. Even the most religious turians were extremely worldly when compared with zealots of other races. It was just part of the culture; part of that vaunted 'turian honor.'

_Seems like I have a lot of questions for this guy, if I ever get around to asking them._

_If he starts to seem a little less like a machine, maybe._

Thane was obviously a little reserved. And he'd definitely killed a great many people. But so far, from what he'd seen, Garrus could respect him and even identify with him – with an assassin, of all people. That was a little strange. In his C-Sec days, it would have seemed _very _strange. But he'd changed since then, especially since letting Sidonis go. In a sense, he was learning to check his own instincts, learning to see things in grey instead of black and white.

Take Sidonis, for example. Was he a traitor? A coward, even? Comparatively weak? Yes, on all counts. But was he _evil_? Not hardly. He had only become a traitor because he'd feared for his life; that certainly didn't put him on the same level as a sadistic maniac like Dr. Saleon. It seemed like common sense… but it was never easy for Garrus to feel empathy for someone who'd committed an injustice. Mostly, he'd feel anger, a sense of rightness in judgment. It never _felt _like self-righteousness, not in the moment, but he could recognize his tendency toward complete condemnation of criminals to the point of irrationality. It was a defense mechanism and a difficult trap to avoid falling into.

_Difficult for everyone but Shepard, apparently._

Well, not always. Shepard 'was human, after all,' as some humans seemed fond of saying. Kind of an odd expression, equating weakness with one's species as a whole, as if it's something that's self-evident. Wrex would have an aneurysm. His own people had no equivalent for _that _one, not even remotely. But there was some truth in part of that sentiment, to the idea that everyone struggles with the same things: the desire to do good, the need to make a difference, the search for happiness…

_Maybe the difference between us is just in which desires we feel and to what degree. Or that some people (_like me_) just can't separate the facts from our own emotions and don't know how to respond when things get difficult..._

_I should write a book about all this, _he thought, darkly amused with himself. _About justice. Maybe humans would buy it._

Gidion would read it. Painstakingly.

_He'd read it, then toss it aside and call it "sophomoric rubbish."_

That thought actually brought a smile. _Neither of us has much of a way with words. It probably _would _be terrible._

There was another human expression that perplexed him – something about a "duck." If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck… what? The end of it was apparently implied. First of all, what's a duck? And "quack"? A science term, maybe. Metaphysics? Subatomic particles? Maybe it was like "When in Rome…" That one, he'd figured out, and he was still waiting on the perfect opportunity to use it. He'd almost tested it on Gabriella the day before, but the moment just hadn't been quite right.

Movement in his peripheral vision caught his eye; Thane was holding his rifle out, unconsciously testing its familiar weight in his hands. Preparing for battle, as he undoubtedly had countless times before, much like Garrus himself. On cue, Shepard's head appeared in the door again.

"Let's go."

Thane shouldered his rifle and slipped a small handgun into a holster at his hip. The drell dressed lightly, kinetic field generator deftly hidden and weapons mostly concealed. The anti-Shepard.

"As you say, Commander," Thane rasped. "Lead the way."

"Who are we fighting?" Garrus wondered aloud, hefting his own rifle. "Collectors? Angry krogan? Drug-addled celebrities?"

"No one, if we can avoid it," Shepard replied, checking his Claymore. "Eclipse mercenaries, otherwise. Apparently Samara is deep in their territory at the moment."

"I still don't understand why you bother with that thing," said Garrus, indicating Shepard's heavy shotgun. "It's so impractical."

Shepard arched one of his thick eyebrows, as if confused. "One-shot kills," he answered, as if that explained everything. He brandished the weapon in an absurd combat pose. "Go ahead… Make my day."

"Do you feel lucky?" Thane said randomly, to Shepard's tremendous amusement and Garrus' perplexity.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Garrus asked.

"A human thing," said Shepard, clapping him on the shoulder with a smile. "Come on. Miranda's waiting."

He followed them out, filing that one away for future reference, though he didn't exactly know what to make of it.

_Maybe Gabby would know, _he reflected. He'd have to remember to ask her. Assuming he survived this little jaunt, of course.

_You never know. Sometimes you _do _get lucky._

* * *

_Samara_

They were in the process of surrounding her; she would have suspected as much, even had her eyes not told her it was so. She observed them dispassionately, noting their positions as pawns on a board, as she planned her movements. Six sisters; two in the fore, two circling the crates at her back, two on the platform to her right. Too close; in these tight quarters, six was a paltry sum. It would not be nearly enough.

The crime scene was closed, but mentioning that would have been largely irrelevant – Eclipse controlled this sector, no matter the image that the local law enforcement sought to project. Even so, in the presence of a Justicar, these asari tread warily. The leader was hesitant to engage her, seemingly torn between the desire to intimidate her and the fear of what Samara might do in response. The result of this, thus far, was silence. She would consent to break it.

"My name is Samara," she offered in a placid tone.

"I know who you are, Justicar," said the leader, openly brandishing a handgun. The sister flanking her carried an assault rifle, currently trained on Samara's forehead. The Justicar chose to ignore this.

"Then perhaps you can assist me," Samara responded. _This should be interesting._ "You smuggled a woman off-world yesterday evening. An asari. I would like the name of the ship she left on."

The leader smiled and shook her head. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Samara stared at her, nonplussed. "I will give you one chance to reconsider your stance, as the Code requires."

The woman scoffed, obviously attempting to convey scorn and disbelief, but Samara's experienced eye could detect tendrils of fear and apprehension stirring beneath the surface of her blustering exterior. Her companion's grip on her rifle tightened; its muzzle trembled in her grasp.

"Are you threatening me?" the lieutenant snarled, her voice dripping with caustic venom.

"I am merely offering you an alternative."

"To what?" she demanded.

This conclusion was self-evident; the Justicar Code was precise and uncompromising, and its words were ingrained in the very fiber of Samara's being. These women had harbored and abetted a dangerous fugitive, a woman guilty of countless atrocities and murders. The language of the Code was clear.

Samara's bright blue eyes were unblinking.

"Death," said the Justicar.

The Eclipse sister tried to laugh and almost succeeded. The end result sounded more insane than amused. "Is that supposed to scare me? Threats from a single unarmed individual? Do you not know where you are?"

Samara suppressed a sigh. It was truly regrettable how often these mercenary types insisted on violent confrontation. Unarmed? True, Samara did not carry firearms… but she did not require them.

"I will ask once more –

"Forget it," the woman interrupted brusquely. "Let me offer _you _an alternative. You turn and leave, right now, and my unit will refrain from turning you into a bullet-ridden corpse."

The ghost of a smile touched Samara's lips. "I am afraid that I cannot comply."

"Kill her," the mercenary ordered, but Samara was already moving. In all its phases, her life was as music – at times a slow, rhythmic groove, at times a measured pulse, but now, as in any battle… allegro.

The two mercenaries at her back closed in on her quickly. She turned on a heel, sidestepping a shotgun blast, biotic energy coursing through her in a raging, sensual torrent, pausing momentarily to obliterate one of her aggressors with a vicious biotic pulse. Her compatriot stared in numb shock as the body sailed through the air, crashing into one of the storage crates with a sickening thump. Shock would be the other woman's final expression; the Justicar quickly and unceremoniously snapped her neck.

It was a dance to which she knew every step; her foes were her partners, gunfire her solemn dirge. She weaved her way among them like a phantom, carving a swath of biotically-fueled destruction. Their decision to surround her so closely was a fatal mistake. They should have spread out, tried to take down her kinetic barriers from a safe distance. Now, it was already too late.

These six were not nearly enough.

The leader's personal guard sailed screaming through the air, barreling into the doorframe like a missile and collapsing in a dead heap. Silence. Now, only the now-humbled lieutenant herself remained. Her grip on her handgun was frantic, and she sucked breath in erratic, panicked gulps, her eyes wide and disbelieving.

"Those… those were my best troops," she breathed, backing away like a frightened animal.

Samara started toward the mercenary, forcing the woman back toward the wall. "Tell me what I need to know, and I will be gone from here. Where did you send her?"

"You think I'd betray her?" she snarled, in the same crazed, incredulous tone. "She would hurt me in ways you can't imagine!"

_Oh, but I can._

"The name of the ship," Samara insisted, closing in on her. "Your life hangs on the answer, lieutenant."

She could see it in her eyes, now: this woman knew she was going to die. Once, that fact would have made this more difficult, but the dance could not end here. Perhaps its end would bring a bitter taste, but there were steps yet to take.

"You can kill me... but you _will _die for what you've done here. The entire Eclipse presence on Illium will come after you with a vengeance. You'll never make it out of Nos Astra alive!"

_Perhaps… perhaps not._

_But neither shall you._

She extended the mass effect field around her, enveloping the woman's body in a hazy, blue glow. It was a glorious sensation, lifting the weight of a body purely with the strength of her will. The lieutenant dangled limply in the air for a mere moment, helpless in Samara's iron grasp, before the Justicar wrenched her captive's body away in an effortless gesture, hurling her through the plate-glass window and onto the landing below.

Weightless, Samara glided down to meet her fallen foe. These were the final steps. She loomed over the beaten woman, pinning her neck to the ground with a heeled boot. The woman gasped and choked at her feet; she was wounded, and helpless… but she had finally mastered her fear. No tears, no begging, no screaming… Good. So much the better.

"What was the name of the ship she left on?"

She did not expect an answer.

"Fuck you," the woman answered, gasping in futility for the last feeble breaths she would take in life. Samara allowed herself one small pang of regret.

"Find peace in the embrace of the goddess."

A final, mangled retch escaped the mercenary's lungs as Samara's boot crushed her throat, snapping her neck with a swift, violent twist. She took a step back, exhaling slowly and heavily through her nose.

_So it ends._

Following the path set forth by the Justicar Code was bittersweet, equal parts welcome respite and onerous burden. Despite its complexity, in the hands of an experienced Justicar it was an oversimplification of the concept of morality. There were always difficulties – no matter its pursuit of 'black and white,' the Code could not completely eliminate all the grey from the universe. The responsibility of the individual Justicar, however, was to trust it in the moment, to follow its tenets dispassionately, and at this, Samara was a master. She knew herself well, possessed a bottomless reserve of unparalleled, unflappable self-control. She was ever her own mistress, and as she served the Code, so did the Code serve her in kind. The reward for such dedication? A small measure of peace.

But the weight was piling. So much death to be laid at her feet, at the feet of her daughter…

She stifled these thoughts as naturally as breathing, her focus immediately reapplied to the matter at hand. This incident would cause trouble. She had killed only asari, but her movements would nonetheless be further scrutinized, making her task all the more –

_Hmm?_

Movement caught her eye, near the dock's northern entrance – a small group of soldiers had appeared on the scene. The authorities, finally arrived… or perhaps not? No asari among them, led by a human… Not Eclipse, however, that much was certain; those uniforms were impossible to miss. She approached them carefully, her interest piqued.

Two humans, a turian, and a drell… A strange group. Though she had met several stranger.

"My name is Samara," she offered once more, in a curious sort of homage to the beginning of her previous engagement. "A servant of the Justicar Code. My quarrel is with these Eclipse sisters, but I see four well-armed people before me."

"Are we friend? Or foe?"

* * *

_Thane_

'Solipsism' – the peculiar gift and curse of the drell people. Specifically, it was an addiction to the past, a phenomenon that no drell could entirely escape. Doing so required tremendous discipline, but even the most fastidious man could fall under its tantalizing sway.

/_She looks at me, eyes merry and full of mischief. The muted sounds of Kolyat's game, disembodied voices passing through the doorway. "He'll be asleep in an hour," she says. The touch of her hands, soft and warm. Heart pounding. Musical laughter._/

Thane blinked his eyes, a natural response to the return to reality, so to speak. Across from him sat the woman who had brought about this old memory of his past life – Samara was her name.

He remembered her well from their near-meeting not so many nights ago. Beautiful and dangerous, he'd thought her then. True on both counts.

The Justicar sat placidly, her posture and countenance the very image of serenity and ease. She was a captive here, supposedly, though bound neither by cell nor chains. Stronger than any physical bond was the code she followed.

Thane was content merely to watch her, much as he had on that recent night. Looking at her now, it was almost difficult to believe her capable of such ferocity, such unbridled _power_ as she'd displayed on that dock. Six battle-hardened soldiers descending upon her had proved less than a minute's work, may as well have been insects for what little trouble they'd caused her. She had been magnificent, a goddess among mortals, Arashu incarnate, and yet… it saddened him, seeing her now.

_She would be a matriarch, a great protector, creator, giver of life..._

She _did _remind him of Irikah, strangely, though in fact the two shared little physical resemblance. Irikah had been bright, vibrant, lovely in her endless vivacity, quick to laugh and quick to forgive. This woman was calm and subdued, utterly self-possessed, the quintessential personification of her role. A role that intrigued him, without question. His own misguided, mostly-drunken attempt at restoring his moral equilibrium… he was a fledgling of the Justicar's sentiment, a stumbling toddler beside the Justicar herself. Perhaps the two of them were drawn to Shepard's mission from a comparable position.

She was undoubtedly composed, yes, and self-assured, but there was a rigidity to her posture, an unnaturalness in it that spoke to him of the great weight of stress and long years, like a storm far out on the Kahje seas, deep beneath the calm and untroubled surface. What demons stirred underneath that lovely shell; what sadness, what horrors did such long years bring?

Her beauty was not in vibrancy or radiance, not like Irikah that way; rather, it was low and powerful, like a low, sonorous note from the strings of a bass or cello that resonates in both body and soul. When she moved, she did so with a dancer's infinite grace, subtly yet intoxicatingly sexual without even a hint of promise.

It was a strength of will that they shared, this asari and the dead woman who'd been the love of his life; a raw, primal and awe-inspiring fortitude of spirit. It was intangible, impossible to quantify, but just as impossible to miss.

/_Siha…_/

Their eyes met as she noticed him watching her.

"Hello," she said.

Thane bowed his head in greeting. "I apologize. It is rude to stare."

Other races often expressed discomfort with being under drell eyes; he supposed the 'extra lids' made others nervous.

"You simply… reminded me of someone," he concluded.

"_You_ look familiar," Detective Anaya broke in, looking up from her desk. "Have we met before?"

"Perhaps," said Thane noncommittally. Samara watched him intently, her expression completely unreadable.

"I suppose drell are pretty uncommon on Illium," Anaya surmised.

Thane merely grunted in what could have passed for acquiescence. They sat in silence for several moments before the turian, Garrus, arrived on the scene.

"We're heading out," he said, addressing Thane. "You ready to go?"

"Yes. Lead the way, and I will follow."

He pushed off from the wall, sparing a parting glance for the Justicar, once again lost in her meditations.

_A Justicar… Something to see, indeed._

* * *

Author's Notes: _I had a lot of fun with this chapter… Always fun to imagine Samara being a sexy, death-dealing machine. =) Questions? Comments? Criticisms? All welcome. Thanks for reading._


	16. World Without End

_Author's Notes__: Anyone remember me? =)_

* * *

16 – _World Without End_

_Thane_

He took a deep breath and nearly choked, spluttering and wheezing in the hot and salty seaside air. In the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Ferofexis, his snout glowing with mirth.

"_This one wonders if Thane Krios wishes to return to the dome?"_

He coughed again, struggling to catch his breath. "No…" he wheezed. "I'm all right..."

Today was a special day; today he turned seven, marking his first year of service under the Compact, although as yet he was still little more than a novice at his craft. Cuallen had given him the day to play – an unexpected respite from his training, one of the few such idle days he would ever have, and he didn't intend to waste it.

Puffy, grey clouds wheeled overhead, promising more rain and perhaps a storm. That was hardly unusual –Thane couldn't remember even a single day passing without rain. It never rained inside the dome, of course; that was part of the reason he liked coming outside. It was never easy to leave the shelter of the controlled environment: the air outside was sticky and thick, and he often grew short of breath, but he found the rain and the ocean comforting. The quiet, gentle lullaby of the waves on the beach always made him think of home.

Duir Yuchia was the property of the Illuminated Primacy, the hanar government. It was a little seaside village on a small, roughly crescent-shaped island tailored specifically to the drell who lived there, namely Cuallen, Thane's teacher and guardian. His life here was taxing, but fair; Cuallen was a strict taskmaster, but he was not unkind, and the hanar governors of the island were very considerate and understanding. The village proper lay beneath one of the most advanced environmental domes ever constructed on Kahje, according to Cuallen; one breath of air outside it was almost akin to taking a big gulp of salt water, and it only took seconds for Thane's skin to become slick and slimy with the humidity.

In truth, he didn't much care for the steamy air, but he'd grown used to it, after a fashion. It was the water that drew him. That and the chance to play with his friend.

Ferofexis was still glowing faintly; he was always entertained by Thane's forays into the ocean.

"_This one wonders if any monsters are out today."_

"Cuallen says that quickfangs and blackmaws don't like to eat drell. He says we're not as tasty as hanar."

Ferofexis' snout flickered grey-green, the equivalent of a derisive snort.

"_They will have to catch this one first, Little Brother. Besides, blackmaws are only make-believe."_

"Really?" Thane asked, straining to appear nonchalant.

"_Of course. Those stories are meant to frighten little children. Giant fish with twelve eyes that can swallow whole islands in one bite?"_

The hanar wriggled his tentacles and advanced toward Thane in an exaggeratedly spooky gesture. Thane smiled uneasily.

"_No, little Thane… the REAL blackmaws have _twenty_ eyes, not twelve, and they eat starships for breakfast!"_

Ferofexis' rubbery skin flickered rapidly with an energetic white light, a gale of laughter. Thane frowned to himself, puzzled and uncertain. Clearly his friend had been making a joke, but who could know what lived out there, in the deep places where not even the most intrepid explorer had ever dared to tread?

That was how the oceans of Kahje seemed to Thane: a vast, rolling expanse of a beautiful, crystalline blue, as far as his young eyes could see, forever and ever, world without end. It was both beautiful and terrifying.

Sometimes Cuallen allowed him to pitch a little tent at the edge of the trees by the shore. He would lay awake, his muscles cramped and exhausted but cozy and warm beneath his blankets, listening to the water lapping at the shore, at the wind whispering through the trees, at the rain drumming down upon the canvas, and imagine what it would be like to sink beneath the waves, far out to sea. Down, down, down, into the darkness, into the murky and forgotten realm of the blackmaws, quickfangs, stubjaws and dakaraks, where Old Vrocck was said to dwell, whose rumbling laughter churned the seas and brought the summer storms. Childish fancies, Cuallen would say, but Thane did not find them difficult to believe, especially in the dark.

He cast off his shoes, gathering his courage as the sizzling white sand began to warm his feet. Not ten feet away, the water lapped enticingly at the shore, rolling in and out, in and out. He could spend all day like this, just watching. The brilliant white rays of the sun peeked through the frothy nimbus clouds, sparkling on the water as if on polished glass. The water was such a brilliant blue, and so clear, that he could see straight down to the sandy ocean floor. The shallows teemed with life – minnows streaking through the waves like tiny darts, a four-clawed sidewinder skulking along in search of prey, gurglers sending up their little streams of bubbles from their hidden lairs beneath the sand. It was a miniature city unto itself, peacefully going about its day-to-day. That would soon change, if he knew Ferofexis at all.

The young hanar glided slowly past him, stepping delicately into the breakwater, and then… SPLASH! Ferofexis flopped onto his belly in the shallows and began to swim, skittering through the breaking waves like a bolt of lightning. It was pandemonium: fish scattered every which way in a flashing storm of glittering scales. The hanar's tentacles whipped through the sand as he swam; the grumpy-looking old sidewinder that Thane had seen was abruptly upended and deposited on its head. It angrily thrashed about trying to right itself as Ferofexis glided away, the top of his head glowing with spirited invitation as he looked back to the shore.

"_Come out, kelp stalk! Even seaweeds can drift!"_

Thane stepped into the water, wriggling his toes in the sand. In truth, he couldn't swim or even drift at all the way his friend could; without the aid of the floats attached to his beltline and arms, he would sink like a stone. By rote, he checked them all, just to make certain they were fastened tightly. That done, he bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut and clasping his small hands in prayer as his mother had taught him.

"Kalihira, Mother fair, this one offers you a prayer,

To guide my feet as I now roam

Within the waters of your home –_"_

_SPLASH!_ He looked up, startled. Ferofexis' luminescence glimmered in the intermittent sunlight.

"_Give over, silly bones! The rains will come soon! The quickfangs like to hunt in the rain!"_

Thane shook his head, once again checking his floats, pulling on his swimming goggles and taking a deep, salty breath. A school of silverfish darted around Ferofexis' nose as he swam; the hanar swatted at them playfully, scattering the school in all directions. A flock of white seabirds wheeled overhead, scouring the shallows in search of prey.

Thane's mother had always been very nervous about letting him swim in the ocean; back home, the two of them had always recited this prayer before he ventured out into the waves, and it would feel… wrong… not to finish it.

_Through chasms deep and valleys wide,_

_Drifting with the changing tide,_

_And should I reach a darkened place,_

_Shelter me in your embrace,_

_For should I lose my way and fear_

_I know that you are always here._

He could almost see her, now, thin and petite and so very pretty, watching him from the shore with pursed lips and furrowed brow. Ready to dive in after him at a moment's notice, though she had never learned to swim. The corners of his eyes itched.

_I won't cry… I'm not going to cry. Not today._

With one last, wistful thought for home, he began to run, splashing through the waves with heavy, plodding steps, crashing into the shallows with an awkward _sploosh!_ The buoys on his spindly arms and hips carried him up, but as his head crested the water, a breaker rushed in and caught him square in the face, sending a torrent of water straight up his nose. He gasped and wheezed, frantically searching for his footing in the sand. It wasn't very deep; the water only reached his stomach. Ferofexis slithered around him like an eel, glowing with amusement and delight.

"_That was not very graceful, Thane Krios."_

The drell coughed again and stuck out his tongue. His hanar friends often teased him about his clumsiness in the water (and his water-goggles, which made him appear bug-eyed and perpetually startled), but on land, turnabout was fair play. They often looked on in awe during his training sessions with Cuallen; cartwheels and handsprings in particular delighted Ferofexis. No hanar could ever hope to emulate a drell's grace and agility on dry land.

As such, he was happy to endure their ribbing – the hanar had all been very kind to him, and as his father said, being selected to serve under the Compact was a tremendous honor. Ferofexis only teased him because that was his way; Thane suspected that his friend's soul name would have something to do with mischief. If not, it would be a missed opportunity.

"_This one will show you the reef today, Thane Krios."_

"I've never been that far out," said Thane apprehensively, casting a worried glance toward the sky. The clouds sweeping in from the sea were growing darker – was that thunder, or just the wind? Storms on Kahje could come with little or no warning. He could see this one coming, though, and that meant it would be a big one. Still… He was afraid, but also excited. He wanted to see the reef – Ferofexis had told him all sorts of stories about the red and blue and purple seaflowers, and the myriad exotic fish that lived there, fish of all the colors of the rainbow. It would be a birthday for the ages.

"_This one will keep you safe, silly bones. This one is master of the seas!"_

Thane smiled. "Okay. Let's go!"

"_Grab hold!"_

Thane grabbed onto two of his friend's tentacles and sunk down into the water, like a racer in the starting blocks.

"_Three… two… one… Blast off!"_

* * *

He opened his eyes to the soft hum of the Normandy's engines. The room was dark, save for a muted blue glow bathing the corridor outside the door; the justicar and her meditations. Not Kahje. Normandy; a ship quietly speeding through the dark, empty void between worlds. Most of the crew would be asleep.

Most, however, was not all; a small, lithe figure sat in the corner of the room, watching him.

"I see you, Ms. Goto."

The little thief glided to her feet, regarding him with a demure smile.

"May I?" she asked, indicating the chair across from him.

"If you wish."

"I thought you were sleeping," she continued, slipping into the seat. "I came to offer you the spare bunk next to mine, but you looked so peaceful…" She cocked her head to the side inquisitively. "_Were _you asleep? Sitting up like that?"

"In a sense," Thane replied, meeting her eyes. "I was… remembering something. A day from my childhood."

"I see," she answered, resting her chin on her hands and peering up at him intently. "Drell have eidetic memory, right? That must be quite something. I hope it was a good memory."

He sighed, feeling himself smile unbidden. "It was."

There were few memories more precious to Thane than those of his childhood forays into the seas of Kahje. Whipping through the water like a wraith, grinning from ear to ear, getting water up his nose without a care in the world… That day, the storm had come too soon, and they'd been forced to turn back. He'd never been able to see the reef.

That had been the last swim he'd ever taken with his childhood friend; the very next day, his teacher had informed him that they would be moving to Veroshta, one of the great cities of Kahje.

/_"This one's Name is Oromeder vere ama Adelairen."_

_Laughter on the Morning Breeze._

"_I will always be your friend, Thane Krios."/_

He blinked his eyes as he snapped out of his reverie. Kasumi Goto watched him with an expression that he couldn't read.

It was difficult to reconcile that little boy with the man he had become. The hanar had always been impressed with his thoughtfulness, intelligence and willingness both to learn and serve... but those days seemed so very long ago. That bright-eyed, thoughtful, energetic boy was as much a stranger to him now as his son.

He had tried teaching Kolyat to swim, but his son had never much liked the water. And, certainly, considering Thane's current situation, staying dry made a great deal of sense. But even with his disease, it was hard to regret the time he'd spent in that little hideaway by the sea. Yet another thing he wished he and Kolyat had been able to share. He could remember looking down at the fear in Kolyat's eyes as he clung to Thane's legs, shrinking away from the water with uncertainty. He'd been scared, yes, but on a few occasions…

/_He sits on my shoulders, laughing with delight as we float overtop a towering breaker._

"_Look out, Dad!" he cries. "Here comes another big one!"_/

"Thane? You okay?"

Thane gave her a rueful nod. He was becoming far too emotional, to drift so easily.

"I apologize," he offered. "Returning from a vivid recollection can be… disorienting, on occasion."

That was putting it lightly.

"No need to apologize," she said gently. "I understand."

He nodded to her, remembering her gray box. "Perhaps you do."

"It must be a terrible burden, remembering so much."

"There is enough good to counter the unpleasant," he replied, and that particular lie was one that he'd told enough times that it flowed from his lips as easily as breathing. It was starting to ring a bit hollow in his ears.

"I'm not sure it works that way," Kasumi replied with a wry smile. "Even for me."

He bowed his head noncommittally.

"Well, the offer stands," she said, standing herself. "There's an extra bed if you want it. It's awfully lonely in here."

"Thank you, no," he replied graciously. "The dry air suits me. I do appreciate the offer."

"Fair enough. Sleep well, Thane."

"You as well."

He watched her go, another of the enigmatic people that Commander Julian Shepard had managed to gather for his impossible mission. It still seemed strange; not a week past he had been embracing the probability of death at the hands of the Eclipse mercenary band. Now, he sat aboard one of the most advanced warships in the galaxy en route to an uncharted world, one door down from an asari justicar and right across the way from Cerberus' second-in-command. An odd turn of events, to be sure, but somehow… it seemed right.

He had little time left. If he couldn't be with his son, he could scarcely imagine a better place to be than on the front line of a fight to save hundreds of thousands of lives. Perhaps he could finally put his gifts to a use that would bring him peace.

_Maybe she's right. The happy may not truly serve to balance the unpleasant, but still…_

He smiled to himself, already drifting back through so many long years, back into the mind and body of a young boy floating on his back, on a bright summer's day in the tranquil Kahje seas.

_It doesn't hurt to try._

* * *

_Shepard_

"So where are we going, sir?"

"Eden Prime," Anderson answered, still focused on whatever message he was composing. Shepard stood in the doorway of the captain's cabin, hands clasped behind his back.

"At ease, Commander," said Anderson, without turning to face him. "What's on your mind? Playing messenger for the crew?"

"In part," Shepard admitted. "Having a Spectre on board is making everyone nervous."

"I know," the captain replied, swiveling around in his chair. He looked tired, to Shepard's eyes, tired and a little exasperated. "Not just a Spectre, but a turian Spectre. I've heard some of the grumbling myself, but as long as it stays grumbling as opposed to shouting, it's to be expected."

"Some of us feel like the Alliance brass might have been... less than forthcoming about what's going on here," Shepard offered.

"That would be nothing new, Commander, as you well know. Don't give me the run-around, Shepard. I know 'some of us' is Joker. Probably Pressly, too."

Shepard's smile was self-deprecating. "I guess I've never been very good at being diplomatic."

"You do well enough when you try. I just know you too well." Anderson sighed, shaking his head. "If you can rein Joker in without riling him, do it. He's the one with the biggest mouth and the one that sets most people to talking, and there's not a doubt in my mind that he's the one who started this, whether he'll admit to it or not. I don't want to have to officially reprimand him, but the more he keeps his mouth shut about this, the happier we'll all be. It'll just be for one more day."

"I'll talk to him," Shepard promised. "I can stop the grumbling, at least publicly, but not the uncertainty."

Anderson nodded distractedly. The two of them worked well together, Anderson as the stalwart captain and decorated veteran, Shepard the quietly charismatic second-in-command. They'd been running a tight ship for… how long had it been since Elysium? Five years? Even _with _the esteemed and incomparable Flight Lieutenant Moreau and his motor mouth on board, this much unease among the crew was an extreme rarity under David Anderson's command.

This mission, though… Pressly might be a little on the paranoid side, but Shepard couldn't disagree with most of his concerns. The whole just didn't add up to the sum of its parts. This was only the newly-minted SSV Normandy SR-1's third voyage, supposedly a shakedown run to test the ship's cutting edge prototype stealth systems with Nihlus Kryik serving as the Citadel Council's eyes and ears, but a Spectre was extreme overkill for that sort of assignment and everyone knew it. Not to mention the fact that someone from way up top had yanked the entire crew off of shore leave at Arcturus for this supposed test run, which made no sense at all. As Pressly had observed, a skeleton crew would've served just as well.

And every time he turned around, Nihlus was watching him.

"Take some downtime, Commander. I want you at your best tomorrow when we reach Eden Prime."

"With respect, sir, I don't think my part in this will be especially important. This is Joker's show. Well, his and Adams'."

"Be that as it may, make sure you get some rest. That's an order."

Shepard nodded, still trying to puzzle out what was going on. Clearly _something_. "You're expecting trouble, sir?"

"I don't know what to expect," Anderson replied, leaning back in his chair. "We'll know when we get there. That's all I can say for now."

"What does Nihlus say?"

"A whole lot of nothing so far. I don't know what the Council had him doing before we picked him up, but Admiral Lindholm was pretty eager to get rid of him."

"It's an interesting move, sending a turian Spectre into Alliance space," Shepard mused.

"Nihlus is all right, as far as I can tell," said Anderson. "At least he isn't openly disparaging of humanity – if he feels contempt, he's hiding it, and a lot of the turians I've met don't even bother. But it doesn't make much difference – having to integrate a turian Spectre into the fold had every officer in the First Fleet tiptoeing around and whispering behind closed doors, no matter what sort of person Nihlus is."

Shepard shook his head ruefully. "I guess it's to be expected. The first alien I ever met was an asari, and I don't think I remembered to close my mouth for at least an hour. It's human nature to tread carefully around the unknown. You think _that's_ why they wanted to be rid of him?"

Anderson shrugged. "Who knows? Could be any number of things. He's a Spectre; whatever it is, you and I aren't very likely to hear about it. Honestly, Shepard? I think we're too new onto the galactic scene to be anything but nervous around Council representatives. All of us are flying by the seats of our pants, our leaders included. It's a delicate balancing act – the last thing Admiral Lindholm wants to do is offend a Spectre, but we have our own interests to consider. No one was happy about giving a turian free reign to go gallivanting all over the fleet with impunity."

"It's not as if we have anything to hide," Shepard replied. "We're still trying to catch our technology up to the salarians', anyway. Nihlus is a Spectre, not a spy."

"Ever the idealist," Anderson smiled. The captain had a hard face, weathered by many long years of service, but his smile softened it to a surprising degree. "One of these days, Commander, I'm going to manage to impart you a little bit of skepticism."

"I just trust people until they give me a reason not to."

"And what happens when that 'reason not to' turns out to be a knife in the back?"

Shepard smiled. "That's what my armor is for."

"I'm too old for a set of armor heavy enough to stop all the crap people try to throw at me," Anderson quipped. "Old dogs like me learn to rely on a healthy amount of mistrust. You trust Nihlus?"

"Trust him not to stab me in the back? There are a lot of witnesses on this ship. For the moment, I'll reserve judgment."

"Just tell the others to be patient. And get some rest. Big day tomorrow."

Shepard saluted crisply. "Can't wait, sir."

Anderson snorted. "Smart-ass."

Concealing a grin, Shepard left the captain to his work, heading back toward the mess hall… and there he was again, leaning against the wall, perched like a spider and apparently fully absorbed in watching Gladstone and Tucks eat dinner. The Normandy was always relatively quiet, but not _that _quiet – the two crewmen ate in silence under the turian's cold, expressionless eyes. Nihlus had to be aware of the effect his looming presence was having on them; maybe he just didn't care.

"Evening, gentlemen," said Shepard, nodding to the two men. Both of them looked up eagerly at the sound of his voice; Gladstone, the mousy little engineer, and Tucks, Pressly's lanky assistant technician.

"Hey, Commander," said Tucks in his lilting Welsh accent. "Care to join us?"

"No thanks, Private. Appreciate the offer."

"Turning in early, Shepard?" Nihlus opined. "Good. You'll need your rest for tomorrow."

"That's what I hear," Shepard deadpanned, nodding to the turian without breaking his stride. "Have a good night."

Was he being jumpy? Or was Nihlus really following him around?

_Don't be an idiot. For fuck's sake._

He closed the door to the XO's quarters and sat down on his cot. His room was a good deal smaller than Anderson's, but he did have one to himself, and that was something.

He sighed and kicked off his boots, laying back and resting his head on the pillow. Over the years, Shepard had learned time and again to trust his instincts, and the events of the past two days had sent red flags flying up all over the place. However, as he'd assured the captain, he would wait it out and reassure the crew as best he could. Shepard was properly wary of both Citadel and Alliance leadership, no matter what he'd told Anderson on the subject, but he trusted the captain.

He owed Anderson that much. The two of them had been through all manner of hell together over the past five years – batarian terrorists, human extremists and vengeful bureaucrats alike. No matter his skill, Shepard was perfectly willing to admit that he'd been very young for the promotion he'd received after Elysium, and Anderson had proved both a valuable mentor and a reliable friend. In all honesty, there was no one in the galaxy that Shepard trusted more.

In a way, though, it was still difficult to trust the captain's words, knowing Anderson as he did. Shepard hadn't been privy to Anderson's meeting with Admiral Lindholm, but Shepard knew him, could read a great deal in his face and body language, and he could immediately tell that that encounter had given Anderson something to think about – he was more visibly anxious now than Shepard had ever seen him, and for a stoic professional like David Anderson, that was saying something.

_What in the hell is going on?_

The overhead lights flicked off; 2100 hours, then. The room was silent save for the rhythmic tick-tock of the clock on the bedside table. It was digital, of course – he'd just programmed the sounds in because the white noise helped him sleep. The room's furnishings were fairly utilitarian even by military standards, but there were a few personal touches. The virtual calendar on his wall displayed a wide-angle shot of a sunset over a forested river valley on Sur'Kesh, the salarian homeworld. He would make time to visit one day; Thessia, too. For as long as he could remember, he'd nurtured an undying passion to see and experience everything. To the right of the calendar hung a plaque bearing a five-pointed star – the Star of Terra. Getting it framed had been expected of him, and he had nowhere else to put it.

It was not as though he wasn't proud of the medal, but he _did _get tired of talking about it. People always seemed to think he'd be eager to relive the Skyllian Blitz, as if there hadn't been fire and death and screaming people everywhere, many of which he'd been unable to save. His brief foray with fame in the aftermath of the Blitz had left him utterly convinced that celebrity wasn't something he would enjoy – every time he did an interview, he felt like a complete idiot. Watching the segments on the news had been painful; he'd stumbled over his words like a child, somehow managing to liberally pepper in 'um' and 'uh' about fifty times per clip despite the fact that he'd _rehearsed_ most of the damn things based on a script of the forthcoming questions. Not his finest hour. Thankfully, his fifteen minutes of fame in the public consciousness had run out fairly quickly.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, focusing on the soothing rhythm of the clock. Tick…tock. Tick…tock. Maybe Nihlus _was _just inspecting the ship. Turian engineers had helped build it, after all. Maybe they were all being over-sensitive dumbasses.

_Or maybe I'll grow wings and learn to breathe in space, _he thought with a yawn. _Well, we'll hit the relay tomorrow._

_Time will tell._

* * *

_Miranda_

He was always the same – freshly pressed suit, high collar, every hair in place. Legs crossed. Cigarette in hand. She was always struck by the haunting quality of his eyes in the hologram – bright blue, piercing really, with those strange ocular implants that he'd never satisfactorily explained.

"I assume, then, that your business on Illium is concluded," the Illusive Man declared, a cloud of translucent smoke momentarily obscuring his face. His eyes shone through the veil.

"For the moment," Miranda replied, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. "Shepard plans to stay in contact with Dr. T'Soni; I think it's likely that we'll return if she asks for his help."

"Keep an eye on that relationship," he ordered. "Has he said anything else concerning the quarian, Tali'Zorah?"

_Relationship. What do you mean, 'relationship'?_

"We've touched on it, but I don't think he's decided anything. What about their _relationship _concerns you?"

"I don't want Shepard's past loyalties interfering with the mission. We're walking on very thin ice here, Miranda. I shouldn't have to tell you that it isn't in our best interest to allow him to run off on a moment's notice to rescue old friends."

"You did want him in charge," Miranda said mildly.

"And I put _you_ there to watch him," he replied tersely.

_Touchy, touchy. _"Nothing has changed in that regard. Not that I'm aware of, at least," she replied in an even voice. "If you're concerned about my performance –

"No," he interrupted, softening his tone. "You've been under an extraordinary amount of stress lately. I'm happy that the situation with your sister has been resolved."

"Thanks in large part to Commander Shepard," she replied.

"True enough," the Illusive Man mused, his lips quirking upward in a faint smile. "And he seems to be doing admirable work with the others. As natural a leader as I've ever seen."

"He's very charismatic," she agreed. "He has a way with people that I doubt many others could duplicate."

_Present company included, _she thought wryly.

_Myself included._

"He's certainly earned _your _loyalty," he remarked.

"I'm still doing my job, if you mean to imply something with that statement."

"You can't blame me for being a little concerned, Miranda. Allowing emotions to interfere with job performance isn't something I've seen from you before."

So it came back to this again, did it? Leave it to the Illusive Man to be both supportive and smarmy within the span of about thirty seconds.

_Is he being unfair or am I just getting defensive?_

No; he was just being himself. In the past, she would have been much more aloof to this line of questioning, and he would have recognized that. The only logical conclusion he could come to was that her loyalties had, if not shifted, then at least… what? Evolved? Grown?

And was he wrong to be suspicious? The Illusive Man had no way of knowing that she and this very same Commander Shepard had very nearly shared a kiss the other day.

She was_ not_ going to blush.

"I can assure you that I am completely focused on the task at hand," she declared. "I'll check in again when I have more to report. Lawson out."

He cut the connection briskly. Maybe the irritated look on his face had been her imagination.

She headed back for her rooms, passing Daniels and Donnelly without really seeing them. She'd had comparably tense encounters with the Illusive Man before; after all, he hadn't been happy about her forwarding information on the _Hugo Gernsback's _fate to Jacob's personal inbox. His irritability in itself was unremarkable. What concerned her was what she could discern of his state of mind – trying to unravel his train of thought led in several unpleasant directions.

If he thought he was losing control of her, how long would he hesitate before having her killed? She thought she had succeeded in reassuring him, and she ought to know – she knew him better than anyone, having worked directly under him for over ten years. But it _was _disturbing to consider how little she really knew about his plans. Take this facility on Pragia, for example. If Jack could be believed, they'd been buying abducted children from batarian pirates for tests with experimental biotics. Miranda was neither naïve nor soft, but that strained credulity. And she knew that if she asked him, he would downplay things the way he always did. He was usually convincing and usually right, but how many questions had she avoided asking by virtue of trusting in his judgment and the rightness of his motivation? _Would _he order her death? She'd seen him condemn people for less, and do it casually. She might be dead already if replacing her were more convenient.

He would have expected her to succeed; she'd been bred for it, after all. But he would not have anticipated having to question her loyalty. And the Illusive Man always disliked things that he could not anticipate.

This line of reasoning reminded her maddeningly of Shepard, so naturally she did her best to stifle it. _That_ wouldn't do at all. Wasn't it _his _job to be righteously indignant about something or other that Cerberus, and by extension Miranda Lawson, had done?

She would keep her thoughts to herself for now, but she _was_ going to ensure her own presence on the ground team when Shepard decided to hit Pragia.

_What does it matter? This was years ago, anyway. You've defended controversial Cerberus positions to him before. Enthusiastically, even._

A small knot had settled into the pit of her stomach. _What about child slavery? Could I defend that? Child torture? Murder?_

_Would you want to?_

_If I'm taking Jack's word at face value, my world truly has been turned upside down._

Suppose everything Jack said was true? What would that really change? She couldn't honestly claim surprise; Cerberus operatives were typically given wide leeway with regard to their methods. The Illusive Man recruited the best and brightest of humanity to his cause whenever he could, and many of these people, especially the academics, turned out to have very loose ideas about ethics.

She sighed, settling in behind her desk. She'd always believed that in the interest of the greater good, the ends usually justify the means. What was the point of drawing some arbitrary line in the sand to mark the point where that would no longer be true? Letting conscience dictate progress was not something that Cerberus engaged in. It was illogical. And yet...

She recalled Jacob's confrontation with his father, those accusatory words that he'd uttered with such contempt:

"_The man who did this doesn't know right from wrong."_

_Growing a conscience yourself, Miri?_

No. She wasn't 'growing' one; she'd always had one. She had merely learned to keep it in check, to recognize when that feeling of unease and distaste was just a necessary byproduct of necessary work. She was _not _going to question every decision she'd ever made just because that little bald bitch had made her a little squeamish.

_Yes, you will. See? You've already started._

She tossed that nagging little voice to the ground and stomped on it. At least for the time being. There would be time enough for brooding; there was never any doubt of _that_.

Sitting at her desk, she started to scan through Shepard's messages by force of habit when something strange caught her eye. A message from _Urdnot Wrex_? Having met the man, she wouldn't have thought him the type to bother with extranet messaging. Curious, she opened it. The message contained one word:

"_Shepard."_

He had already replied. The response:

"_Wrex."_

The significance of this apparently meaningless correspondence was completely lost on her.

_Is that really the whole message? Am I missing something?_

She looked again. She wasn't. But it was getting late. She rubbed her eyes.

_That will be quite enough for today._


	17. Sunshine

17 – _Sunshine_

_Garrus_

"Check."

He frowned and took a deep breath, staring down at the board with grim determination, like a general taking stock of his forces after an exceedingly bloody engagement. His army had been decimated – all but three pieces had been captured by the enemy, and those remaining unhappy few were backed into a corner by a vastly superior force. The ivory queen loomed two spaces away, flanked by two knights. Another rook lurked in the distance with a clear path through to his pitiful base of operations, thus no less dangerous for its position on the far side of the board.

"Your move, slowpoke," said Gabby.

"I know it's my move," Garrus snapped, irritated with himself. Had he been too aggressive? _This whole mess started when I lost my first rook. I overextended myself and then compounded the problem by_ _overreacting to my mistake…_

Gabriella laughed. "Well, staring at the board isn't going to help. You can't _will_ your queen back to life."

The turian stared at her, mandibles twitching with irritation. She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, looking as smug and self-satisfied as Shepard's pet hamster with a hunk of cheese.

Garrus had discovered the game of chess during his time at C-Sec, and he'd found it to be somewhat similar to stones, a board game often played by military officers and trainees on Palaven. It wasn't a perfect comparison – in chess, many of the pieces were different and had different rules governing their movement, and victory was achieved by capturing one special piece instead of trapping the majority of your opponent's pieces, or "side". Plus, the board was a lot smaller, making the engagement much more limited in scope. He'd initially assumed that this would favor his own aggressive style of play, and it had against Rolston, Donnelly, and Patel, but Gabby Daniels had proven very adept at using his own tendencies against him_._

_I shouldn't have let her take my queen. I didn't get enough in return to make it a worthwhile trade, not to mention I had to spend my next five turns setting up a defense for her counterattack…_

The game of stones was a prominent part of military culture on Palaven, as it was supposed to serve as an accurate measure of an individual's tactical mastery. He was a very good player, himself, but whenever he and Tali had played, he'd never been able to win even a single game, and most of them hadn't been close. The quarian had been even worse than Gabriella with her gloating.

"_You can't say my hips are distracting you," the quarian taunted. "You can't even see them from where you're sitting."_

_Garrus scoffed. "Yeah, well, that's not why you win, anyway. I just have more important things to do than stare at engines all day or read books about board games."_

He suppressed a grin at the memory, redoubling his focus on the task at hand. His knight was dead; no use "sugarcoating" that one. Her queen was poised to attack, and ideally he needed to make it cost-prohibitive for her to come too close. "As a commander, sometimes you won't be able to stop the bloodshed, no matter what you do, but if your enemies are determined to attack, you can always, _always _make them pay for it." So said General Adrien Victus, at a lecture Garrus had attended during his military days. It was good advice… but with only a doomed knight, a functionally useless bishop on the far side of the board, and a very vulnerable king, there wasn't much Garrus could do to dissuade his opponent from swarming his territory. Where had all his pieces gone? Three small islands of black in a veritable sea of white...

It was hopeless.

"All over but the crying, Garrus," said Ken Donnelly in a tone of commiseration.

"It's not over," he replied tersely, internally retracing his steps. _She was baiting me,_ he mused, nodding to himself. _She knew I would overextend my lines, and she spent the first half of the game preparing for it. I walked right into her trap._

It _was_ over, though. Nothing for it, really. He had only one possible move – his king was directly threatened, and the only way to save it was to block her advance with his knight. But that would only save the king for all of about three seconds. All Gabriella had to do was take the knight with her queen, and…

"Checkmate," she declared.

He sighed with resignation. He and Gabriella had faced off three times thus far, and this was his worst defeat yet.

"Chin up, Garrus," Gabby smiled. "You're_ loads _better than Ken."

"Says you," said Ken sullenly. The two engineers rose together and walked toward the counter.

Garrus looked up from the board. The rest of the mess hall was slowly beginning to fill, and that meant it was almost time for him to grab his food and make a run for it before Gardner started working on Mordin's lunch. The humans didn't seem to mind it, but to Garrus, salarian food smelled like ten-day-old death. Or a landfill full of dead fish. How could something that smelled so terrible to him possibly be _palatable_ to another species? He'd once asked Mordin Solus this very question, and the salarian's response had been to grin enthusiastically, spread his arms out wide and proclaim, "Science!"

"Dinner is served!" Gardner declared, for all the galaxy as if he had discovered the true meaning of life. Garrus had to hand it to the Normandy's quartermaster – he had to prepare meals for an asari, krogan, turian, salarian, and even a drell, and by all accounts, none of them were half bad. Gardner seemed to find it a nice challenge – or a pain in the ass, depending on his mood when you asked him.

The human crew of the Normandy had thus far confounded Garrus' expectations. Truth be told, he would've expected a little more wariness or even resentment for non-humans from them, being members of Cerberus and all. Gabby and Kenneth had accepted him warmly from the beginning, but he'd initially thought the two engineers to be anomalies. Their motivations were very similar to Shepard's, and both were recent recruits of Cerberus. Neither of them had encountered any of the more disturbing byproducts of Cerberus' research projects, as Garrus had. But for the most part, they were a friendly bunch. Patel and Rolston were both very personable, and then there was Kelly Chambers, who if Garrus didn't know any better actually seemed _sexually attracted _to him. The ship's yeoman currently sat at the far corner of the table, across from Mordin. Whatever they were talking about, their voices were pitched too low for Garrus to hear over the muted din of the cafeteria.

Jacob, Hadley, and Zaeed sat at the table directly across from him. He didn't understand why Zaeed always pestered Jacob; maybe the old merc just enjoyed getting under the younger man's skin.

"From what I hear, there were a lot of salarians with the Eclipse on Illium," Hadley was saying through a mouthful of food. "Seems a little odd. I thought the Eclipse sisters on Nos Astra were a pretty tight-knit bunch."

"You know what they say," said Zaeed. "Can't spell 'salarian' without 'asari'."

"That's stupid as fuck," said Jacob.

"It's true."

"That doesn't make it any less stupid. You can't spell 'Massani' without 'ass,' either."

"You can if y'know what's good for you, fancy pants."

"Where did that expression come from?" Hadley wondered aloud, perhaps in part to diffuse the suddenly-mounting tension at their table. "…uh, the first one, I mean. Did you just make that up?"

"Politics," Zaeed growled, still matching glares with Jacob. The old merc was wearing a promotional t-shirt for _Vaenia_ – it was an image of two bare-chested asari, their bodies pressed together to form a rough 'V'. Asshole or no, Garrus had to admire the man's taste.

"Some turian diplomat or other came up with it after the First Contact War," Zaeed continued, finally turning back to his lunch. "I guess they were annoyed with the salarian Councilor for backing the reparations for the Alliance after the war."

"How do you even know that?" Jacob asked, clearly skeptical.

Zaeed shrugged. "I dunno. Heard it somewhere. You get to be my age, you hear lots of things."

The hall was almost full, now. Almost everyone was relaxed, relatively speaking, but Garrus could still detect a palpable sense of unease simmering just below the surface. By now everyone knew that they were headed into geth space, and that rightly made everyone nervous. It made him nervous, too, come to think of it. He'd fought plenty of geth in the past, but never on the synthetics' home turf. What could Tali possibly be doing beyond the veil, anyway? Recon? Surely not. Shepard hadn't known much; Garrus wished he'd been with the Normandy's crew for the Freedom's Progress mission so he could've asked her himself. The more he thought about it, the less he liked the sound of it.

_Are you concerned, Garrus?_

_... That is actually a distinct possibility._

He smiled to himself. He _did _miss Tali'Zorah. Not that he would ever admit it, least of all to the quarian herself. He knew Shepard did, too. Part of the reason his friend had avoided Haestrom before now was his uncertainty over whether to even approach Tali about this mission. Garrus could understand wanting to keep a friend out of danger, but could the Omega-4 relay really be that much more dangerous than whatever crazy thing the flotilla's Admiralty Board had her doing in _geth space_?

_Besides, it just wouldn't be the same without her, with that stupid combat drone flying around blocking my shots._

She would _want _to come. Plus, at least on the Normandy she'd have Garrus Vakarian and his faithful sidekick Julian Shepard to watch her back. Garrus had always enjoyed doing that – even in that bulky envirosuit, her back was still _very_ watchable. So to speak.

The door to the med bay suddenly snapped open to admit Joker, hobbling along and obviously in a bad mood.

"Do you have to follow me around everywhere?" the helmsman complained.

_Who is he talking to? _Garrus wondered.

"I am uncertain if you truly desire an answer to that question," EDI's voice replied in a monotone over the loudspeaker.

_Ah. Should have known._

"I do not engage in 'following' you in any literal sense –

"Yeah, yeah, eat shit, EDI," Joker interrupted.

As if on cue, a rancid smell began to waft from Gardner's kitchen, and Garrus' eyes twitched toward Mordin almost of their own volition to find the salarian already smiling at him. Garrus did not return the sentiment.

"Disregarding both the crudeness of that suggestion and the physical impossibility of my compliance, I maintain that it was not my intention to upset you, Mr. Moreau. I was simply curious as to the reason for your brooding –

"I'm not brooding," he snapped, hobbling toward the elevator.

"According to the extensive knowledge of human physiology and body language that I have at my disposal –

"_Go fuck yourself!_" Joker snarled, nearly apoplectic with rage. "You and your physical impossibility! I swear to Christ I'm going to flash the AI core..."

"... Logging you out, Mr. Moreau."

Garrus shook his head ruefully at the alarmed expression on Kelly Chambers' face.

"I didn't know you were religious, Joker," said Hadley.

Joker snorted. "I'm not."

He disappeared around the corner, the sounds of his uneven footfalls trailing off as the lift doors closed behind him. Garrus noticed Dr. Chakwas standing in the doorway, watching Joker go with a strange expression.

"Is everything all right?" Kelly asked worriedly.

"Jeff had to have a shot today. Several, in fact," said Chakwas. She looked almost… sad.

"I see," said Kelly.

"Pussy," Zaeed grunted.

Kelly faced him indignantly, hands on hips. "He has a debilitating condition, you know."

"So 'e's a_ crippled_ pussy," said Zaeed, wiping his mouth as he finished his lunch. "My mistake."

"Why don't you go bother Jack?" said Jacob, clearly annoyed.

Zaeed stood up and stretched. "Maybe I will, if I get in the notion to go get my head snapped right the fuck off. She's probably still busy, though."

"Doing what?" Jacob arched an eyebrow. "Trolling on the extranet?"

"Nah. She's tryin' to help our little krogan figure out if he's a biotic."

"_WHAT?_" Kelly shrieked.

"Unlikely," Mordin chimed in randomly, his attention focused primarily on the steaming pile of disgusting mess that he was _actually going to eat_. _Spirits_, but that stuff stank.

"No mention of element-zero nodules in Okeer's notes," Mordin continued. "No biotic amplifier implanted. Would require very invasive surgical procedure for krogan..." The salarian trailed off, looking up from his food to find everyone staring at him.

"Ah," he blinked. "Joke. Quite humorous, I'm sure."

"You were kidding," Kelly said, her voice a touch unsteady. It wasn't exactly a question.

Zaeed favored her with a blank, unreadable stare. "Was I indeed?"

"He was kidding," said Garrus. "I'd think that we'd hear something if they were destroying the ship."

"Those two should really be separated," said Kelly. She watched Zaeed as he walked to the lift, her brow furrowed with anxiety.

"Where's Shepard?" Garrus wondered aloud.

"He and Operative Lawson are having a… discussion," Kelly answered, hesitating for a moment over her phrasing.

"I don't think Miranda's too thrilled about our upcoming jaunt through the Perseus Veil," said Jacob, plopping down in the seat across from Garrus. He gave the chessboard a cursory examination before shaking his head. "She whipped you pretty good, huh?"

"This time," Garrus allowed. "But I'll get even."

"Uh huh."

He was still uncertain of Miranda Lawson, regardless of Shepard's obvious attraction to her (or perhaps _because_ of it), but Jacob Taylor was another Cerberus operative that Garrus had grown to like. Not that he trusted any of them very far. But most of them _did _seem like fairly decent people.

_Is this a fair representation of Cerberus as a whole, I wonder?_

Doubtful. The crew of the Normandy SR-2 had been hand-picked by the Illusive Man himself, according to Joker. Bringing Shepard back to life had cost Cerberus millions upon millions of credits, and considering this tremendous investment, it was more than likely that the Illusive Man had selected a crew for the Normandy that he felt would make Shepard feel comfortable. All the mad scientists were probably operating in other cells, like Operation Thorian Creeper or the Brainwashed Rachni Initiative.

_Mad scientists, ex-Alliance black ops, hit-men and skull-crackers, and crazy shitheads like that Dr. Wayne..._

_These_ people, the Normandy's crew, weren't like that. Maybe the Illusive Man had selected them for precisely that reason, but there was more to it than that. They weren't just Cerberus anymore – this was _Shepard's _crew, now. Sure, many of the names, faces, and personalities were different, but at its core, the atmosphere of this ship was very similar to that of the original Normandy. Shepard's leadership style fostered both order and camaraderie – who else could legitimately keep a criminal psychopath and an adolescent krogan in line with the goal of rescuing abducted colonists?

_Maybe Jack isn't all _that _bad..._

_Yes, she is. Even Victus would have his hands full with this group._

It was a testament to Shepard's will and charisma more than anything else – Garrus really didn't know how else to explain it. Shepard wasn't loud or brash; he hardly ever shouted, and he led primarily by example. Yet somehow, all these people, this bizarre and disparate cast of characters from all races and walks of life, stood united behind one common goal. Sure, they bickered a little, but it was in good fun… well, mostly. Just like Garrus' own little team on Omega. "The Dirty Dozen," as Butler had been so fond of saying.

Maybe that was part of why he'd been so proud of them – a group even Commander Shepard could have been proud of.

_Just as mismatched a group as any that Shepard ever put together. The "Dirty Dozen"… heh._

_More like the Dead Dozen, now._

He sighed bleakly. That particular wound was no longer red and raw, at least, but it was still tender. Still, if nothing else, the coming Reaper invasion provided a _great _source of perspective. The Collectors were a very real and tangible threat, but if Shepard's theory was right, the galaxy had a whole hell of a lot more to worry about than a bunch of abductions. Compared to the Reapers, everything else was, as Gabby would say, "small potatoes."

Those men were his responsibility, and he'd failed them. But as long as he was alive, he would keep going. For Palaven, for Solana, for Shepard, for Tali'Zorah vas-whatever-ship-she-lived-on-now, for that crazy Verner character who had stalked Shepard on the Citadel… For Sidonis. For those too weak to fight for themselves. It wasn't perfect, but it was all he had.

Jacob grabbed a pawn of each color and shuffled them between his hands, offering a pair of closed fists. Garrus chose the left; Jacob opened his hand to reveal an ivory pawn.

Garrus nodded. "Maybe I'll have more luck with the white side."

Jacob smirked. "If you're relying on luck, you're gonna be in bad shape, friend."

"We'll see."

It was all right, really. He hadn't been able to save his own little band of freedom fighters, but they were with him, still – all of them. Many things could be said of Garrus Vakarian, more than a few unflattering, but there certainly wasn't any quit in him. Maybe he _was _hurtling toward certain death, be it at the hands of the Collectors, or the geth, or the giant army of Reaper ships waiting in dark space, but it would be nice to see the look on Tali's face when he pulled her ample ass out of the fire. Again.

He leaned forward in his seat, facing his adversary with rapt attention. He had to focus – two defeats in a row would be tough to live down. Surely the Reapers could wait for Jacob Taylor to receive his daily serving of humility.

_Surely. But if not, well… There are worse places to die than among friends._

* * *

_Shepard_

She looked up from her desk as he entered the room, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from her face with her fingers, a fierce and challenging light reflected in her eyes. She'd managed to shed some of the instinctive wariness that she'd cloaked herself in during their first days working together, but he knew her well enough now to instantly recognize her displeasure when he saw it – the slightly narrowed eyes, the upturned chin, that disdainful little set to her lips. There was going to be an argument, her expression said, and he was probably going to lose.

_Funny how often that seems to happen._

"Commander," she greeted him in a very neutral tone. "I'm glad you came by. I've been meaning to speak with you."

"About Haestrom?"

"Among other things, yes."

"I take it the Illusive Man doesn't approve."

"No, but he defers to your judgment," she replied. 'As if you care,' her tone implied. She seemed resigned on that point, at least. Thankfully.

"But you don't?"

She folded her arms beneath her breasts and met his eyes over the top of her desktop monitor. "I think that you should at least lend some consideration to the possibility that you're not acting in the best interest of the mission."

Her dark hair had a wispy quality to it today, not nearly as immaculate as usual. She must have recently blow-dried it. Hurriedly. So she'd been showering not so very long ago…

_Um, focus._

_Tali might be getting shot by the geth and you're thinking about sex._

At least the _conversation_ was progressing in a direction that he'd anticipated.

"Tali's worth three or four engineers, by herself," he began. He'd rehearsed this in his mind several times before making this visit. Her eyes narrowed further, possibly in disagreeable anticipation of the argument he planned to make. Definitely not in suspicion of the way he'd been staring at her without realizing what he was doing.

Surely not.

"The geth would've wiped out my whole team in addition to an entire colony on Feros if she hadn't been there," he continued. "I've seen her rebuild an engine with makeshift tools while under fire in extremely hostile weather conditions. We don't have anyone on the team with anything approaching her level of engineering expertise."

"She is also on a classified mission at the behest of the quarian flotilla's Admiralty Board, on a hostile world in the middle of geth space," Miranda countered.

He shrugged. "I don't see how Haestrom would be any different from taking on all three of the biggest mercenary bands on Omega or fighting through an army of Blue Suns and cloned krogan. Everything about this mission is dangerous. We have the only ship in the galaxy that can effectively hide its heat emissions, and we can be careful."

"Even with the Normandy's stealth systems, a venture into geth space could turn to disaster very quickly, Shepard. All of our intelligence on their numbers and deployment is spotty and unreliable. The only _reliable_ thing about the geth is their ability to perpetually surprise us with alarming technology. I can hardly imagine a more dangerous place to fly a scout ship than beyond the Perseus Veil. I'd sooner go sniffing around Khar'Shan."

"All the more reason to go as soon as possible," he insisted. "The quarians don't have ships with stealth drives. They'll be sitting ducks if the geth find them, and we can get in and out without anyone or any_thing _ever knowing we're there."

"Remember what's at stake here, Shepard," she replied, her voice growing a touch heated. "The Collectors have abducted thousands upon thousands of colonists, and all of those people are depending upon _us_ –

"Thanks," he snapped, "I hadn't realized that. Good of you to point it out."

_Is she wrong? Really?_

No. She wasn't. He could admit that much to himself, but if anything, that fact just increased his frustration. She wasn't wrong, but citing the dangers of geth space wasn't going to change his mind. As if he didn't know that already.

He was also annoyed that there was no chair across from her desk, so he was forced to stand before her like a supplicant to a queen. She certainly looked the part. And it wasn't even remotely fair that he still found her incredibly sexy even while he was annoyed with her.

"Well, then, given your _expert _grasp of the situation, Commander, you'll forgive me for being surprised at the need for us to have this conversation," Miranda replied testily.

"Given what _you _did for your sister, Executive Officer, I would expect you to understand," said Shepard. Miranda's blue eyes flashed at him in anger.

"It's my job to temper your insufferable personality against reckless action, _Commander_. This devil-may-care attitude with regard to passing through the Perseus Veil easily meets that criterion. For the life of me I'll _never_ understand why you always have to... Oh, forget it."

She threw up her hands, clearly exasperated. "What's the point? You've made up your mind. Don't give me that look, Shepard, you know you have. I don't even know what he was _thinking_, forwarding you that dossier. Of course the mighty and indomitable Commander Shepard is more than a match for the geth. How foolish of me to question! Why don't we just fly the Normandy beyond the Veil to rescue a friend of yours who clearly hasn't asked for it, needlessly risking the lives of everyone on this ship just so you can be a _bloody hero _–

"Would you stop flinging that in my face?" he shot back, angry in truth, now. "I never asked for this. You think I _wanted _all of this craziness thrust on me? How do you think you'd feel in my position? I'm doing everything in my power to stop the _end of every goddamned thing _at the hands of a race of omnipotent machines that almost no one else even _believes _in, and if people aren't questioning my every move, they're openly questioning my sanity! You know what…!"

He stopped himself and took a deep breath. He wasn't the sort of person to rail against things he couldn't change, and he wasn't about to start now. Besides… she was venting, too. They were both under a lot of stress.

Miranda didn't respond. She merely watched him, her brow furrowed with frustration and concern.

"You know what? You're right, Miranda. It _is _absurdly dangerous. It's a huge risk. But you know what else? I'm doing it anyway. And if I get killed, you're in charge. Jacob can be your XO."

"Don't talk like that, Shepard," she said quietly.

He met her eyes again. She looked... earnest. And worried. It was the most expression he'd seen from her since she'd met her sister face-to-face, and he fell silent, watching her as she got up and walked around her desk to stand across from him.

"I'm sorry," she said simply, resting a hand on her hip and looking away from him. "We shouldn't fight."

His eyebrows climbed, almost of their own volition. Now, _this _was unexpected.

"I know you understand the risks involved with this," she continued, "and if I can't dissuade you... so be it. I trust you. I shouldn't have lashed out that way. It was unfair, and… I'm sorry."

He placed a hand on her shoulder. "It's all right. You're not wrong, anyway."

She looked up at him, favoring him with a slight smile. "That's a curious expression."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes," she nodded, tilting her head askance, her smile broadening with amusement. God, she was beautiful. "You mean, 'I agree with nearly all of your objections to my plan, but I'm doing it anyway.' Does that just about cover it, Commander?"

He smiled back at her. "Just about."

"What changed your mind, though?" she asked. "If I remember correctly, and I do, you were hesitant to involve Tali'Zorah in this at all."

So she was Tali'Zorah now, instead of "the quarian." That boded well, at least.

"I still am," he admitted with a sigh. "I'm just worried, I guess. She promised me she would contact me when she finished her work for the Admiralty Board, but it's been months... She's so casual about throwing herself into harm's way for the good of the fleet. I don't like not knowing what's going on. I want to make sure she's okay."

"Casual about putting herself in harm's way," Miranda repeated aloud. "Who does that remind me of, I wonder..."

"Grunt?"

She laughed softly. "Well, him, too." She sighed, crossing her arms and looking up at him with a bemused expression. "What _am _I going to do with you, Commander..?"

"I can think of a few things," he replied, reaching out to touch her cheek with his fingers.

Her eyes snapped shut as she started to turn away from him. "Shepard, I..."

Impulsively, he took her head in his hands and kissed her with a ferocity that almost surprised him._ She _was obviously surprised, for a moment, but she didn't resist. He felt her slim arms slide around his neck, her lithe fingers tangling in his hair as she opened her mouth to him, returning the kiss with enthusiasm to match his own. It was absolutely electric, like months' worth of anxiety poured out into a single glorious release… but as quickly as it began, she pulled away from him, both of them breathing heavily.

"What?" he asked, frowning at her in confusion. "Did EDI say something? I must've missed it."

"I'm sorry, I just..." she sighed, wringing her hands in frustration. "I don't know what to _make_ of this_... _Whether it's just stress, or blowing off steam, or…"

"Why do you always have to quantify everything?" he mused, watching her with a wry smile. He thought he already knew the answer. The two of them were enough alike in this regard that he could guess.

"Because this is serious, Shepard!" she snapped in a strained voice, her brow furrowed with anxiety. "We've been behaving like a pair of adolescent children, and this is no time for _emotional entanglements_! You and I know more about the Collectors than anyone – we know how _unlikely_ it is that we're coming back alive…"

He nodded – he understood. Shepard had spent most of his adult life keeping people at arm's length, slow to trust, keeping his problems to himself, but Miranda made him look like an open book in comparison. Running from her father into the arms of Cerberus, into a job where a single misstep could be lethal, working for a man whose motives she could never fully trust, she surrounded herself with a wall of steely resolve and icy self-possession buttressed by an unrelenting sense of professionalism. Had she ever let _anyone _through those defenses? Her old friend Niket, maybe… and he was dead.

She hid it so well, but beyond that wall of unflappable self-control, beyond the avatar of the deadly and ruthless _femme fatale_, Miranda was afraid. It was the same reason that he'd never really had friends, himself. With so many things depending on him, it was hard to see the value in getting close to anyone. Build up so many walls, and it's hard work tearing them down.

Miranda was painstakingly analytical in her thinking, and as such, it was fairly easy for him to mentally trace her line of reasoning: "I am Cerberus' second-in-command. A great deal depends on me. I maintain distance from others for good reason. The mission is too important."

Plus, it would be difficult to let someone through that wall. Painful. Awkward. And at any time, at any moment, a bullet could come hunting for his head. Then where would she be? No more or less alone than before. Alone and hurt, instead of merely alone.

_It's still worth it, _he thought, without a shred of hesitation. He had his own wall, after all. He certainly hadn't _planned _on developing an "emotional entanglement" with Cerberus' second-in-command in the midst of juggling two million different problems, the goddamned Reaper invasion among them, but Shepard had never done anything piecemeal, had never lived or loved by halves. He'd been fighting for almost his whole life, and if he was going to fall for someone, now was as good a time as any, Reapers be damned. They could get in line.

She's _worth it._

He reached over to brush a wispy strand of raven-black hair from her eyes.

"Miranda… it's all right."

She scoffed at him. "It's _not _all right, it's a hopeless mess. What idiotic bunch of hormones thought that _now _was a great time for this to happen…"

She sniffed at him, her brow wrinkled with vexation. "You know, you've got a great deal of nerve, Commander. If you had any idea how much you've complicated my life over the last three years, you might at least have the decency to be ashamed of yourself."

He gave her his most innocent look, which earned him one of the little carefree giggles that he was slowly growing to treasure. Miranda didn't laugh often, but when she _did _let her guard down, in rare moments like these, when the dark clouds born of all the stress and danger of her life receded to let a little ray of sunshine in...

_She's right, though. Of all the times for me to get this involved with someone…_

He almost laughed at the thought. Commander Shepard, in a "relationship"? It was laughable; absurd. Who had time for relationships? Hell, he'd been sleeping alone since… what? One night on Noveria? And what chance did the two of them have, really? An Alliance marine and a Cerberus officer. Conflicting loyalties, conflicts of interest, abducted colonists, angry politicians… and the goddamn Reapers. Armageddon on a galactic scale, fireside myth come to life in a blaze of pure bat-shit insanity. When was the last time _anything _in his life had been easy?

"It _is _complicated," he agreed, reaching down to take her hands. "So let's un-complicate it."

"Oh, this should be good."

"We're here to deal with the Collectors, and that's what we're going to do," he continued. "That objective rightfully demands all of our focus. But along the way, I don't see why we can't…"

She squeezed his hands tightly. Her gaze shifted to the floor. "Can't what, Commander?"

"Debate interstellar politics. Have some more deep, philosophical discussions. Continue to get pissed off at one another on a daily basis. Make out on occasion. Have a picnic on the Presidium, I don't know. Everything we've been doing to this point, with a little less tension and a little more physical contact? Would that be so bad?"

"And the Collectors? The Reapers? Harbinger?"

"I can multitask."

"Not if you're dead," she said softly, without meeting his eyes.

"Miranda. Look at me."

She complied, slowly, still squeezing his hands tightly, her blue eyes bright and shining. Somehow, some way, he'd managed to wedge himself into a small crack in that wall of hers, and sharing this small moment of vulnerability with her filled his chest with an overpowering warmth.

"I died once already," he said gently. "Have a little faith."

"Faith has never been my strong suit."

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Then you'll just have to rely on your own ability to keep me alive."

"We've seen just how well that's gone so far," she replied, returning his grin in spite of herself.

"I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Not due to any effort of mine, you crazy ass. Your survival to this point has been bloody miraculous considering your wanton disregard for personal safety."

He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. "Miraculous, huh? I thought faith wasn't your strong suit, Ms. Lawson."

Her arms draped loosely around his neck as she leaned in close to him. "Don't mince words with a biotic, Commander Shepard."

"That must be on a t-shirt somewhere."

"No doubt," she murmured.

He kissed her again, a long, slow kiss from which she made no attempt to escape. Lilacs, that was it. Her shampoo smelled like lilacs.

"About to hit the first relay, Commander," said Joker's voice. "ETA at Certain Death, approximately 11 hours."

She exhaled slowly as they parted, a sigh that spoke to him both of contentment and perhaps a touch of resignation. He almost laughed at her; 'I can't believe I'm doing this,' her expression said.

"Thanks for the update, Joker," Shepard called.

"Sure thing."

Miranda took a step back from him.

"I need to check in with Mordin," he told her. "We OK?"

"I suppose," she replied, unconsciously straightening her uniform. Probably still trying to wrap her head around what had just happened.

"Let's just rescue those colonists," said Shepard. "After that, well… One thing at a time."

* * *

_Author's Notes_: _I struggled with this for a while, as I tend to be very tough on myself as an editor, but... I guess I like it. I tried to interlace some of the actual dialogue into the mix, just for perspective. Thoughts are welcome._

_The game of "stones" that Garrus mentions is a reference to the game of the same name that many of the characters in Robert Jordan's_ The Wheel of Time _books play. I'm a huge dork for WoT._

_And I don't know if imagining Mordin in a bow tie as the salarian equivalent of Bill Nye the Science Guy is funny to anyone but me, but oh well. I laughed. I love Mordin.  
_

_Thanks for reading!  
_


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